


His Universe || The Doctor

by shawtygirl0513



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:42:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 45
Words: 90,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23571025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shawtygirl0513/pseuds/shawtygirl0513
Summary: "What would YOU know about children?""Hmm. I was a father, once.""W-" Her mouth was agape, staring at the Doctor aghast. "What?"In which the Doctor, admittedly, picks just the right person for his lover- mischief-maker, survivor, and, oh, Time-Lord, too.Or should he say lady?
Relationships: Eleventh Doctor/Reader, Jack Harkness/Reader, Tenth Doctor/Reader, The Doctor (Doctor Who) & Reader, The Doctor (Doctor Who)/Reader
Comments: 80
Kudos: 293





	1. Prologue (1)

Under the burnt orange sky, there is a kaleidoscopic glass dome above a city. The city is crowded, the people beautiful, and laughter rings through the bustle of the crowds. Silver leaves of trees fall softly unto the ground, reflecting the light of the twin suns, and in the distance, far, far away, painted with a million brilliant hues of orange and red and yellow, is a canvas of colors stretched across the sky, giving the everlasting mountains a look of pure, liquid beauty.

_That_ is Gallifrey.

Gallifrey is as beautiful as you remember, every detail fresh from your dream, fresh onto the crisp white paper waiting for you to pour your worries out; you can still sense it, the smell of the plains of grass, stretching for miles and miles across the hills, scarlet as ever, and the sound, _oh, god, the sound-_ of its people, the Gallifreyans, still alive.

Or should you have said... still, not dead...?

Your hand raises, against your own will, and shakily, you fill out every detail with the charcoal. Painstakingly slow, as to savour every memory, commemorate it all. The round horizon, graced with bleeding crimson suns, the gently sloping and curving hills, everything you can imagine. The crystalline dome of the city, the tiny people, all going on with their lives as they had in your dream.

Every detail, coming to life upon your paper. The colours wait on your palette, patiently, almost _wanting_ to represent your home; all of it, too large of scale to be brought onto paper, by hand, through nothing but your dream. But you remember it, because it still hasn't left you, has it? The soft blessing of your people, caressing the very depths of your soul.

The charcoal sketch is rough, but captivating. You cannot believe you have drawn this, managed to capture even a miniature portion of the allure of your planet. If you place your hand upon the paper, flutter your eyes closed, you can almost feel it. Right there, in front of you, alive. The image burned into the back of your eyelids.

You long for the warmth of two suns, shining on your face, illuminating the city with its flaming hues. Your eyes snap open once more, and you survey the picture, mouth dry.

There is still one thing missing.

Drawing the paper closer to you, you rub the charcoal against your fingers nervously, and in a terrace, away from the confusing crowd, you draw him. Your lover.

Or at least, how you remember him. Like it had been, in the dream. His messy hair, the etched linings of his face, his silk suit, that watch. Those slightly weary yet grinning eyes.

You get halfway through his face before tears start running down your face.

That's when you stop, when you let down that piece of charcoal and wipe your face with dirtied hands, paying no mind to the streaks of black running across your cheeks. You must be over him- it's been more than just a few years- but you _can't._ He had been your life, made you seen colour in places you'd never _thought_ to look. You'd loved, sweet and short... till the end.

This was you getting better. He'd always been better at hiding emotions than you- while you screamed and cried and cursed, he'd always been there, deathly silent, like the calm before a storm. He'd held you, rocked you back and forth in his arms, and he'd whispered consolations. He'd always hid his emotions too well.

And god knows, this _was_ you getting better. Before, at the mere mention of your home, you'd cried. Felt as if you were drowning, as if you were six feet under and you couldn't just live. Now? All you felt was mere numbness. Emptiness. A hollow feeling, inside of your chest, as if your two hearts had stopped simultaneously.

And you'd learnt to hide your emotions, or get hidden by them.

_"I'm a man of science,"_ He used to say to you, _"But meeting you? That- that was destiny right there. Good ol' destiny at its finest."_

You'd blushed at that time and told him, rather violently, to shut up. Then you would have turned over in the bedsheets and kissed the living daylights out of him, just because you could.

Taking a deep breath, you make sure the tears are gone before picking up the chunk of charcoal again, and with slow but steady fingers, finish the outline of his face. Of your Doctor's face.

You are (Y/N) (L/N), and you are the last of the Time Lords.


	2. Prologue (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the dialogue from the Doctor Who episode "Fear Her".
> 
> "What would YOU know about children?"  
> "Hmm. I was a father, once."  
> "W-" Her mouth was agape, staring at the Doctor aghast. "What?"

Rose Tyler crosses her arms and looks at the Doctor expectantly.

The Doctor, being the man he is, seems not to notice. Too busy babbling, no doubt.

"So, where should we head off to, ay? Mars? Somewhere further away, am I right? New new york? Real new new, this time, not the new new new new new new new new new new new new new new new york, not fifty billion. Closer than that. Oh, have I told you? One time I was visiting New New York. It was awfully nice, and then this- this- Canadian comes up. Mind you, he wasn't alone- Canadians, by the way, lots of planets have a Canada. Not a Canada, though, it was more of a Canadia. Canadia, don't you really like that name-"

"Doctor." Rose says.

"It's very nice, in fact. It's a shame I wasn't Canadian. Or ginger. I would have liked to be ginger. Or some pretty eyes. Blue eyes, oh, that would be good. But Canadian, that'd be very nice-"

"Doctor."

_"Or._ I could be Italian! Imagine that, Italian. Me as an Italian. Or maybe I could have been female, but we're getting off the point here. I was saying, that thing about where we're going-"

_"Doctor."_ Rose cries. He grows silent.

"Yes?"

The silence is deafening, oddly; he cannot help but look down, avoiding her gaze. The Doctor knows exactly what she's going to talk about. He shouldn't have said that, back then, but he couldn't help but think of them. Them, and his family, and _her-_

"Back then, when we were in the TARDIS, you talked about..."

He can't. Not this.

"Oh, that's not important. Off we go again, I was maybe thinking Earth again. Somewhere old. Like Stonehenge?"

"You talked about how you had... children."

"Did I?" _Uncaring. Unknowing. Indifferent. Hide your emotions._ "Well I don't remember. So, as I've been asking you, where we off to now?"

She crosses her arms.

"Doctor!" There is a hint of warning in her tone. He can't help but remember, didn't she talk to him like that, once? When they weren't romantically involved, when he was still chasing after her with all his might.

_Uncaring unknowing indifferent uncaring unknowing indifferent uncaring unknowing indifferent-_

But he _can't._

"Yes." He says, and his voice is small, almost inaudible under the whirring of the TARDIS. "Yes, I did."

"Want to talk about it?" She asks. It's so funny, the things humans do. Wanting to carry the burden together. He wants to say no, to keep the memory to himself, but he finds himself talking.

"I had a girlfriend. Children."

"A- A girlfriend?" Rose asks, and her eyes are cautious, her hand on his arm, softly. "A wife?"

"No, a girlfriend." He says, and now that it's out he can't stop. "We were going to marry but..." He chokes, unable to continue the sentence. _but the time war began._ "She was beautiful. I loved her."

Rose reaches forwards, silently, and her arms are wrapped around his quivering form, as he takes deep breaths, tries to calm himself. Tries to bury the pain again, to push away the ghosting sensation of how her lips felt on his, how she cupped his face in her hands and laughed, that _beautiful_ laugh. How she would talk to him in soft murmurs, her long hair falling like a curtain around the two of them as she kissed him. How she'd laugh, and tug the sleeve of his jacket when she was flustered.

That was the only time he ever talked to someone else about her. Her, his everything. His universe.

That was her.


	3. Harkness

The feeling of your senses returning. Your scattered thoughts being picked up and reorganized. You coming to your senses.

The first word in your mind: _When?_

You seem to be lying on your back in some kind of cement. A road? A small walkway? You're not quite sure where you are, but you hope it's somewhere safe, especially since you can't move. Carefully, you feel for your arm and attempt to raise it; the sudden movement sends pricks of pain all the way up to your shoulder and you let your arm fall back down with a grunt, instead choosing to just lie there while you heal.

Ugh. You should have known better to go through a Tipler Cylinder without a TARDIS- but this _had_ been your best option, and your everyday life; you're used to it by now, pretty much. Not like you've been traveling all the way back from the medieval ages (almost became the first female knight in history, you're pretty sure one of those chapels have your face on them) to almost getting engaged with Henry VIII and altering history. As you said, you've been traveling a long time.

And with not very good means, either. You can still feel it, the vortex manipulator still fastened around your forearm like a vice, which means that no one's stolen it while you've been unconscious. Oh, good.

Lying there in the middle of the road feels so blissful, to tell the truth, but you know you have to get up sometime, to see where you are, if you've actually succeeded in making your way to the twenty-first century like you'd hoped.

If and when you make your way to the 2000s like you'd hoped, you would be able to get help; live out a nice life. You had contacts there, obviously since then was the time you frequented most. But you'd have to get up first.

_One... two... three..._

Taking a deep breath, you peel your eyes open to find yourself blinded with a bright light, of a sun. Automatically, your forearm comes up to block the prodding rays of light and you squint, adjusting to the brightness.

Still on Earth, then. Good.

Next step: you raise your arm, trying to relax it, finding that the vortex sickness is not evident anymore and that the pain has receded. You move both arms freely now, and try to pour strength into your abdomen- you do so, and find out the hard way that there is enough for you to sit up, but not quite enough energy for you to not sway like a drunkard. But that, along with the pounding in your head, fades away after a while, and you find yourself looking around, searching for a sign as to _when_ you are. Check.

The road seems to be somewhere, disappointingly, _not_ around the twenty-first century. There are no apartments, no convenience stores, no dirty looks from pedestrians. If you could talk, you'd say it was a bit _too_ silent, actually.

You frown and wipe your slightly soiled hands on your dress.

Ah, you should explain that part.

Last stop had been nineteenth-century France, which had left you clad in dresses and gowns. God, you _hate_ nineteenth-century ballgowns. Claude Monet had been plenty nice so that you'd been excused from wearing those ridiculous crinoline cages and corsets, so that had been a bonus; you couldn't really complain.

But anyways, back to the point- dusting yourself up, you make good use of what you can see. Posters. Less developed brick roads. A slightly old-fashioned car that insists you're somewhere around the twentieth century. You throw the car another look- nineteen forty, maybe?- and manage to gather yourself enough to stagger up.

"Hello?" You say to the empty space. "Anybody?"

"It's 1941, in case you're wondering." An American voice says behind you, and with a frown you turn around.

"What?" You say, and stop in your tracks, daring not to turn around. Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear- _still_ not used to this new body. Your seventh regeneration.

"It's 1941." He repeats, but when you spin around, he trails off and gives you what he seems to think is the most charming grin he can muster. "And wow, what a _beauty_ you are!"

What- the- fuck?

That strange man- whoever he is- is attractive, but as you said, strange. His attire consists of a trench coat and a bit of a military outfit (World War Two, of _course_ ) and his face is strong and handsome, with a chiseled jaw and a sculptured, practiced grin. One of a flirt.

You give him a raise of the eyebrow, stepping closer, suddenly feeling incredibly underdressed. "I'm sorry, should I know you?"

Strange men turning up a mere five minutes after you've gotten up? Not a good sign.

"Oh." He says, and you half expect him to start attacking you straight away. You reach up, ready to grab your sonic hidden in the fabric of your dress, but he merely holds out a hand and says in the most _flirtatious_ way possible, "Captain Jack Harkness. And who are you?"

Jack Harkness. You've never heard that name before in your six hundred and ninety-two years of life, so you determine it's slightly safer than you turning up as a slave girl in Julius Caesar's assassination. "Sarah Smith."

All right. Maybe that's not your real name, but still, you can't trust anyone you've just met- it's something you've learnt and revised more than just a few times since you'd started traveling in a more... permanent way.

"Nice to meet you, Sarah Smith." He says, and his eyes are glittering with laughter- obviously gets that you're lying. You're a terrible liar, you should know, not to mention that obvious placeholder name. Before the Doctor used to say-

_Anyways._ You take his arm and give it a firm shake, the firmest you can manage after kissing the pavement. "So... World War Two, huh." You mutter to yourself- it's close enough to twenty-first century London, but you'll have to sit and live out another sixty years or so. Good thing you don't age. "In a middle of an air raid, I'm guessing."

"You're completely right." He says, flashing you a grin. "Now, we're not safe here. Should we go somewhere... better?"

Follow a strange man?

Before that, you stop and give him a quick scan-down. Guys like him, you've run into them before. They're not much of rapist-murderer-psychos, just flirts. Talking big but nothing much. Not to mention that he doesn't look very World War Two-wise. Of _course_ you can notice the vortex manipulator around his wrist, and the way his eyes flicker to the camouflaged Chula spaceship parked next to the Big Ben. You'd be an idiot not to know.

It's not like you have a choice, anyway- you can feel the vortex sickness coming back to you, unsteady on your feet. The bigger the leap, the more sick you are, and you just took a _huge_ one- from France to Britain, almost two-thirds of a century. Your power is being drained- and you can't risk the same thing as last time when you fell off a cliff, cracked your head, and regenerated on the middle of a pirate ship.

"Lead the way." You drawl with a gesture of the arm, before your eyes roll up into the back of your head and you collapse.

* * *

You awake, _again,_ with a rather drowsy stare into the distance. Or to say, a metal ceiling.

"Nice ceiling." You mumble, slightly delirious, and your hand flops onto your forehead. "Patchy."

"Thanks." Someone says, in a very American accent. "This is my ship, by the way."

_Ship?_ You frown but still manage to sit up- _way_ better than last time, now that you've had a nice nap- and survey your surroundings. Oh, right. The chula ship. Which means that the guy is-

"Harkness." You mumble, and touch your mouth, surprised a little; British. _Very_ British. You'd had an Australian accent before; it hadn't been pleasant when trying to explain to a hoard of cowboys from Texas. "What- Where did you get the chula ship?"

"I have my sources." He says, from behind you, and you turn around; Jack is sitting on a pilot's seat, legs crossed, watching you. When your eyes fall upon his face, he gives you a warm smile. "Now, I'm Captain Jack Harkness. Here." He passes you a piece of paper; "My ID."

Throwing a questioning look at him, you take the card from him gingerly; but it feels off. You give him another hard look and bring the paper to your nose, sniffing it; ah. There it is.

"Psychic paper." You tell him, handing it back to him. "Can't trust you."

"You're a smart one." He says, seemingly unfazed, but you can see him blink rapidly as if startled. "How'd you know?"

"Smells like apple-grass." You hum. "I helped make the most recent edition. Part of the research team."

You want to say _back on Gallifrey_ but stop yourself from saying it, just in time. It's not a lie, though; you _had_ helped making this, and you can still distinctly smell the apple-grass from a chemical side effect. It isn't _really_ apple-grass, and not intentional, just the mixture of a few compounds making it seem so.

"Oh." Jack says, raising an eyebrow. "I love a smart girl."

"Doesn't everyone." You answer, distractedly. Oh, that reminds you. "Do you have a mirror anywhere?"

You can almost guess what he's going to say- _what, so you can check yourself out?-_ so just give him a look. He sighs. "Fine." Jack says, and point. "Back there, next to the crates."

Following his instructions, you find yourself in the back of the ship, standing in front of a full-length mirror.

So _that's_ what you look like.

You're slightly taller than the last reincarnation, though not by much. More of a lean figure than a skinny one. A bit of muscle. You seem to have slightly longer legs than last time, which explains why your clothes feel a little out of place. Your eyes are no longer the brown that you'd been used to but a pretty shade of bright forest green- not to mention your hair, which is a darker brown.

But the only bit that bothers you is that your arms seem a bit longer than last time. _Not_ a pleasant experience. You seem to have a more sarcastic mouth than before, too.

Is that what you are now? Sarcastic, smart, and lean?

That is frankly a bit disgusting. But that's what you think half the time, so instead you make your way back to the cockpit. "Harkness, how do I look?"

"You look beautiful." He grins. "Why?"

Pointedly ignoring him, you tug at your own hair. Shoulder-length. You're used to having longer hair, about up to your waist- you wonder, will it grow or just stay the way it is? If it grows, should you just cut it?

"Nothing." You hum, and frown. Are you the tall and sassy type now? God, this is confusing. "I don't suppose you have tools on-"

Before you can finish your sentence, though, Jack brings out a box of things; setting them in front of you, he gives you his most charming grin. "Captain Jack Harkness. Now what were you saying?"

"All righty!" You say, and your eyes are glittering with excitement, in what seems like the first in fifty years (hint: you've time-skipped fifty years). A chance to get back. A chance to get it right. You can do this.

You rub your hands together and give him a lopsided smirk. "Let's get to work then."


	4. Call

You sigh and flop over on your back, lying in the middle of the incredibly dirty floor.

"Can I have something to drink?" You ask Jack. "Something that's not champagne?"

It's been two days and you haven't had any sleep. Your routine consists of rations, water, going to the loo, and going back to work. All right, maybe you're abusing your new body just a little bit, but that's only because you can afford to. The vortex manipulator is almost fixed, since you've done your best with what little tools you have, but there are a few things you first need to do.

"Here you go, love." Jack says. "Are you sure you don't need anything else?"

You take the glass from his hands and gulp the whole thing down- you hadn't noticed how parched your throat had been until you drunk the water. "Yeah." You say, feeling slightly better. "Wait, no, hold on." Frowning, you stop and analyze your body for anything, noticing the huge emptiness in your stomach. "I'm famished."

"You should be. The last time you ate was twelve hours ago." He says, and you look up, just noticing how he's taken off his jacket to help you work. Beneath he's wearing suspenders and a slim-fitting shirt, which (honestly speaking) looks _great_ on him.

Oh, good. You still have enough strength to check hot guys out. 

"I crave Chinese." You say, a look of realization dawning across your face. That is _exactly_ what you crave- Chinese takeout. Which is both fortunate and unfortunate simultaneously, because you can't get Chinese takeout in World War Two.

"Well I have bread." He says, holding the said thing up. "How'd you feel about that?"

You accept it without a word and take a bite out of a chunk; tastes okay, for you. It'd be better with milk though. "Do you have a phone?" You ask, once you've finished swallowing. There's still one thing you need to do, now that you've fixed your vortex manipulator.

"No," He says, but when you open your mouth to ask him where you can get one, gives you a look and continues, "But I can get you access to one."

"Goodie." You rub your hands together (this body seems to like doing that, a lot.) "Lead the way, then."

He spins around and the ship shudders, lurching forwards.

"Next stop, army base."

* * *

"So," Jack Harkness says as you sit atop one of the crates, fiddling with his psychic paper; "Do you mind telling me about yourself, or do I have to call you Sarah?"

You look up at him, startled. It's been _years_ since anyone found out the truth, and you find yourself a little more than baffled with the current situation. Someone who actually knows who you are.

And to hell with any excuses- you're still not over everything, and you just _can't_ trust everyone you see. You're not like humans, after all, where the most traumatizing event in your life is breaking a stray limb. "You're the one with the killer ship. You go first." You insist.

"Well I'm Captain Jack Harkness, and I'm from the fifty-first century." Jack says, seemingly stating off facts. "Ex-time agent."

"What, you get fired or something?"

"I quit after I found out they wiped two years of my memory. They refused to tell me anything." This he states in a very matter-of-fact way. You wonder, for a moment, if there's more to the story- but no. This is just you, a traumatized ex-soldier, acting up on your PTSD. Nothing of a real threat or worth investigating. "That's my story. Nothing of interest. And you?"

His story ends so quickly it's frankly a bit awkward. What do you tell him? You're six hundred and ninety-two years old, come from a planet that no longer exists, and wander through time streams and planets aimlessly, trying to find a good enough place to settle when you know you can't? That along the way, you fight monsters and other aliens, which is what you used to do with your dead ex-fiance?

How do you tell _anyone_ that?

_Try starting simple,_ a voice in your head suggests, and you find yourself introducing; "For starters, my name isn't really Sarah Smith."

"Yeah, I kind of got that."

"It's (Y/N) (L/N)." You continue, "And I'm... a traveler. I go through time streams and planets, traveling and occasionally helping the human race from extinction."

"I get that you're human?" He asks, and it's a perfectly innocent question but you feel almost guilty, like you're an impostor. Your double hearts beating in synchronization.

"...no." You finally admit. "I'm not."

He raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything; telling you to go on.

"I'm from another planet. But trust me, I'm no different from humans- just that I have a binary vascular system, and a few..." You wince slightly. _"...tricks."_

"Well, you look stunning for an alien." Jack turns back to grin. "Trust me, I've met plenty. And you're... if you don't mind me asking, what race?"

"Oh." You say. You should've known he'd ask, sooner or later, but it hits no different; like a pang to the chest. "I'm a- a Time Lord. Lady."

The ship is oddly silent.

Jack opens his mouth to say something- most likely along the lines of _I've never heard of you-_ but that's when the ship nears a base and you're saved from saying any more.

"Is that it?" You ask. In response, he grabs your arm and you find a hatch in the bottom of the ship splitting open, and the two of you are falling- what the-

You open your eyes again and the two of you are on the ground, standing in the road right in front of the base. "What the-" You frown and swish the air with your finger, bringing it to your lips; okay, that _does_ sound disgusting but you can taste the residue in the air. "Oh, all right then. Lead the way, Peter Pan."

The two of you begin walking. You realize that your shoulders are stiff and tense, the muscles tight as if preparing to pounce; a military base is the last thing on Earth you want to go to right now especially in such a deadly battle as this, but you tell yourself to quit whining. Hiding your shaking hands in your pockets. Taking deep breaths.

You don't notice, however, Jack looking at you slightly concerned until you spot him staring at you a little; you manage to look up at him and give him a confident smile, although you are far from it.

You wipe your sweaty hands on your palms. You _can't_ keep doing this, breaking down in the middle of work.

But you can feel a hand slip into yours, and Jack Harkness is grinning at you with that charming grin, your hand encased in his.

"You all right, (Y/N)?"

(Y/N). You haven't heard that name in such a long time, and the title that went with it... you want to sob, but _for god's sake when did you get so sentimental?_

_Soldiers don't_ have _sentiment._

"What makes you think I'm not?" You say, a grin on your face even tough you feel hardly 'great'. "C'mon, Harkness."

He gives you a questioning glance but the two of you begin to walk, towards the military base, towards that great gaping _place._

"Captain Jack Harkness." He says to the guards, flashing them his psychic paper, and in a blink they're inside: "Phone is in the second room to the left."

The corridor seems longer than ever. It's not the phone call you dread, but the whole _place-_ of course it's nothing like what you'd experienced, back then, but don't all wars have the same atmosphere? The musty, dank scent of poverty, the suffering evident in their gaunt, hollow faces. Their hunched backs, their entire _being_ calling out for home, for family, for safety, for lack of suffering.

_God, why do people like war so much?_

Your dress shoes scratch against the lumpy floor and you're at the end of the corridor in what seems like minutes. You pick up the phone and mentally run through the numbers in your brain, the cell numbers all stored in your photographic memory like a phone book.

And- score! That number, back when you'd been with _him,_ when you'd been traveling. You'd done him a bit of a favor.

Dialing the number, you bring the phone to your ear. Oh, you've missed this a bit. To be frank, you'd think this body was a bit of an attention seeker.

"Who is this?" Comes the voice you haven't heard in such a long time. You split into a wide grin- a familiar voice, _finally!-_ and lean against the corner, closing your eyes; blocking out the sight of the army base.

"This is (Y/N) (L/N)." You say, formally, "Am I talking to Winston Churchill?"


	5. Doppleganger

"Winston!" You yell, stretching and shifting uncomfortably in that bodice as you make your way out of the van. "Winnie, Winnie, Winnie. Where's ol' Winnie!"

_Winnie._ You like the feeling of that word. Winnie. Winston. Winston the pooh?

_Anyways._

"I'm pretty sure you shouldn't call Winston Churchill 'Winnie' in front of half a dozen soldiers." Jack Harkness, next to you, remarks with a little laugh. You shoot him a look- _I'll do whatever I like-_ and stretch your arms (long, _long_ arms), shaking yourself off from that uncomfortable trip.

"Oy, you." You say, pointing to a soldier. "Where's Winnie?"

"The P- Pri... Prime Minister is i- in his study." The soldier looks terrified out of his wits. It reminds you painstakingly of you from a few years ago, back when you were a fresh new soldier, seemingly confident and proud but shaking on the inside. You'd been unable to sleep on the first day, the repulsive gun held in your hands gingerly as you tried to hold in the fear.

And this boy- he couldn't be more than eighteen, possibly older. Sixteen? Not fifteen? You'd been pretty young, by Time Lord standards, when you'd started off, and you can feel pity boiling in you for a moment.

_Just wait four years, buddy._ You want to tell him, but that might change the future, and you're held by rules. So instead, you do the least you can; patting his shoulder, you gesture towards the door and say, "Lead the way."

He shakes his head, though; "I don't know the- the way, Miss..."

"Oh, goodie." You say, for what seems like the hundredth time, and grin at yourself. You like that phrase. You should use it more often; "Well then, who _does_ know the way around this-?"

"Follow me." A man says, before you can finish your sentence, and you raise an eyebrow but don't question it; a cool sweep of your eyes and you find yourself following the man. He seems oddly... trustworthy.

You should know, as you're... well, you, that you don't trust people easily. Yet you find yourself a bit... attached to this person.

C'mon, Jack." You say, grabbing his hand and tugging him after you. You catch up to the guy and tap him on the shoulder, lightly. "Hey."

"Miss." The man says, with a slight jerk of the head. You notice, with a glance, that he is holding his gun gingerly as if he doesn't want it. A pacifist? But a veteran, you note; his stance is familiar and the others seem to respect him.

"Can I have your name?"

"Tim Latimer." He says, giving you a salute. "Ma'am." Turning to Harkness; "Sir."

"Easy, soldier." Jack says, with a smirk on his lips. "Captain Jack Harkness." There is that teasing, flirting quality to his voice that you've heard countless times; rolling your eyes, you squeeze his hand- _"Jack."_

"Am I not allowed to-"

"No." You say, and make a face at him, turning back towards Tim; "So where you from, Tim?"

Tim looks at her, and almost if analyzing her, says, "Farringham."

"Oh." She says, having no idea where that is. "Somewhere interesting, I hope?"

He begins to say something but stops; for a moment he seems to be having an internal debate with himself, until he says, "Perfect place to hide if you're trying to keep out of sight. Just between you and me, Mrs. Smi-" Catching himself. "Ma'am."

What is that supposed to mean? You have no idea; but before you can ask, they pause in front of a door; Tim gives them a look and says, "Wait here, ma'am."

"That's just (Y/N) to you, officer." You say, giving him a mock salute, and the slightest smile is revealed on his face. And then he slips between the doors and is gone.

You watch him for a moment; there is a hint of a hunch as to how he seems to know you- that he is from some future that you've never seen before. But that is the life of a time-traveler- never know when you're going to meet anybody.

He's from a distant future of yours, you're guessing- but what does that mean? Did he try to call you Mrs? Why?\

You're frowning at the sky when Jack Harkness places a hand on your shoulder.

Flinching, you turn towards him- he did _not_ scare you, you were just surprised, that's all- and with a slightly confused tone, ask, "What? You don't see any Cybermen, do you?"

"Not a single one. Listen, do you know that guy?"

"No." You say, and put a hand to your chin, thinking. "Not yet, anyway. Time traveler. Everything's all wibbly-wobbly. You don't know when you're going to meet the people you do."

'You're smart." Jack says, laughing. You grin at him; "That I am."

_"If you're so smart, why can't you manage this one thing by yourself?"_

_"I didn't say I_ needed _help, I said I_ wanted _it_."

You flinch, a bit more violently, as Jack places his hand on your arm. "You all right?"

A hazy look in your eyes, you nod. "It's just..." just what? Just that he reminds you, just a bit, of _him?_ Just that it's been _years_ and you still can't get over what happened? "Just.. nothing."

Harkness looks at you, and he seems to understand something mutual in your eyes; quickly, he changes the subject. "So," He says, smiling, "How come you know this _Winnie?_ "

At the exaggeration of his name, you can't help but let out a laugh. "Long time ago. I traveled to Cuba; saved his life a few times in his youth. He owes me a few favors."

"So you've been doing this a long time now, huh." He remarks. Before you can control yourself, you blurt out, "Yeah, a long time. It sort of started when my fian-"

You stop yourself, with a jolt, not believing what you'd been about to say. You can't believe- you just-

"Nothing." You mumble, looking down. You've gone mad, you have- about to talk about that. "Yeah. I've just been traveling a long while."

Jack obviously notices something's up. He _has_ to.

But instead of reprimanding you or grilling you for the details, he places an arm across your shoulders and that charming grin reappears; "Great, (Y/N)."

_See? Nothing's wrong._

Turning your mouth up into a grin, you clap him on the shoulder and stand up; "Am I the only one who feels like this is taking too long of a time?"

"My thoughts exactly." He agrees, and you rub your hands together in anticipation, heading towards the door. A step before you reach the door, however, the same door is thrown open and Winston Churchill charges through, his hand already outstretched.

"(Y/N)!" Winston Churchill greets with glee.

* * *

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" 'Winston' sobs as you aim your sonic screwdriver at him, one hand propped on your hip. "I confess!"

The two boys, Tim and Jack, are watching you with a mixture of horror and fascination as you tie the Prime Minister to a chair. They seem unaware of what's going on- but you don't have time to catch them up on _latest ways to spot extraterrestrials._

"(Y/N), I thought you were his friend." You hear Jack Harkness point out, but you roll your eyes- he _still_ has no idea?

"I said I was _Winston's_ friend." Crossing your arms, you spin the screwdriver in your free hand and ask him, with the most menacing look you can manage, "Where's the _real_ Winnie?"

"I _am_ the real Winnie!" He cries, but when you grab the back of his chair and begin to drag him over to the balcony, Tim and Jack tottering after you, he flails like a worm and yells, "Stop! I'm sorry! I'm not!"

You hum in agreement. "Yes. Now _where_ is the real Winston?"

"What?" The men say behind you, simultaneously. You use one foot to tip back his chair against the balcony and leave it there, turning back around towards the desk; "C'mon. I know you kept him alive. That's in no way the _real_ Winston- a good lookalike you murdered, I'm sure. But not the real him. Where is he?"

"H- how did you-" The fake stammers; you sigh. Five minutes and he's still stammering like a fool.

"Are you daft? Compression field collars, transporter pendant, the carbon smell in your gas exchange." Ah! Voila, just what you were looking for- You turn around from searching the desk, holding a bottle in your hands; "Not to mention Winston is _really_ shy about farting."

The two men stare on. Winston squeals.

"Which means?" Jack asks, eyebrow raised at the bottle you're holding.

"Raxacoricofallapatorius." You pronounce without even the slightest bit of lag, and uncork the vial. "Slitheen, in shorter words. That's a skin suit he's wearing. Not Winston's." Nearing him, you lean into his face and give a good sniff. "Ah. You've been impersonating him for how long... three years? Less?"

"Y- yes." He says, and the Slitheen seems to gain a bit more confidence at your hesitance to kill him. "Release me! Or I'll call for my brethren!"

"Oh, so brethren." You note. "How many Slitheen? Two? Two, I'm guessing. You haven't changed skin suits in a long while, based on that odor. You should _really_ try deodorant." You smell the vial a little. Hmm. It could still work. "Now, do you want to give me the easy answer or should we do it the hard way?"

"I'm not telling you." The Slitheen insists; obviously doesn't get the power imbalance going on here. You sigh and hold up the bottle, since _everything_ needs a damn explanation.

"This, Mr. Slitheen, is vinegar. Otherwise known as acetic acid. Wine gone too long. You have a release of carbon. What happens when you mix Slitheen and vinegar?"

Behind you, you can hear Jack murmur, "You're a genius."

Leaning closer to the Slitheen. "Kablooey." You whisper, and he starts shrieking; answers to everything.

"All right! I relent! I've been in this body for three years, the real Winston Churchill is locked in a self-sustaining Raxacoricofallapatorian ship; he's safe and alive, just been in a coma for three years; This skin isn't Winston's, it's his brother's; I'm the only one here! No other Slitheen! Don't kill me...me-" At the last word, the fake Winston instantly erupts into bursts of spasmodic crying, blubbering all over the place. You activate your sonic screwdriver and glance at the readings; all right. Fine.

"What's your purpose here?"

"I-" He seems doubtful about saying anything, so you pick up the vial again and let a drop fall to the floor, tantalizingly close to him. "All right! I was trying to deploy the atomic bomb a bit earlier so that I use the power to overcharge my transporter pendant and get to a new planet!"

"A _what_ bomb?" You hear Tim exclaim, but extend a finger towards him, still thinking- "Shush, Timmy. Why would you need the real Winston alive?"

"Because I needed to retain his memories and information."

"With stolen technology." You hum. "Now lead me to your ship."

"I- I-" He blubbers, fat bouncing around his neck in strips, and you roll your eyes, pointing the sonic screwdriver at the ropes binding him. The Slitheen scrambles up and watches you as you grab the bottle, literally _shaking_ towards the door.

"Lead the way." You gesture, coolly.

The Slitheen looks as though he's going to burst into tears, and with a look at you, jiggles away.

"That wasn't real vinegar, was it?" Jack murmurs. You shake your head solemnly. "I thought so. What's your plan if he gets impatient and attacks us anyway?"

You hold up your sonic screwdriver to the light, and from your mouth, the words pop out; "I'll think of something." You say, and give him a Doctor-worthy grin.


	6. Lead

Swatting away several bugs, the three of you follow the Slitheen through a flatland of marshes, where he is trampling through rather easily; you thank god that he's wearing the skin suit. Any human (including Timmy boy) would go out of their minds at the sight; a general, an officer, and a girl in a nineteenth-century French dress following a two-meter tall green babyfaced giant.

Hah. Sounds like a beginning of a joke. _An ex-time agent, a World War Two officer, and the last Time Lord in existence walks into a bar..._ You remember _he_ used to make great jokes. By great ones, you'd mean bad ones that sent you into an unwilling laughter. He'd tease you about that...

You're in the middle of _work._ And very fun work, too. No mood dampeners.

"So, Slitheen guy." You say, crossing your arms as you try not to be sucked up by the mud the four of you are squelching through; "What's your- eek!"

The mud seems to grab onto your ankles with all its might; you stumble and find Jack's arm supporting you carefully; "You all right?" He asks. His face is in close proximity and he looks... handsome. You've been away from male contact for so long you've forgotten what it feels like to be with a handsome man, to have a guy being so nice to you- it's not a bad feeling, just reminds you a bit of the past.

"Thanks to you." You say, putting on a smile. The two of you turn back but you can't help but notice his hand loosely holding yours, as if prepared to catch you if you fall again. "So, Mr. Slitheen, tell us about yourself. What's your name?"

"Jocrassa Fel-Fotch Pasameer-Day Slitheen." The fake-Winston declares. "That's my _real_ name."

"Jocrassa. Long name, by the way." With a second thought, that name is a bit _too_ long. "I'll call you Jo."

Tim seems, strangely, unfazed by all of this; your tongue darting out to wet your lips instinctively, you ask, cautiously, "Uhm. Tim."

He turns. "Ma'am."

"Have I... met you before? Somewhere?" You ask, frowning, but after a hesitation he shakes his head; you feel as though something's off, but don't prod. There must be a reason. Maybe no spoilers, or maybe future you _had_ met them... whatever the case, it's not good to prod.

"All right." You say, more to yourself than anyone, and you know as a time traveler you have to follow rules but you _don't want to._ "Fine. At least explain the Mrs thing."

He shakes his head, again. What is _it_ with this can't-tell-you thing? It's not like it's going to alter the whole universe!

"Farringham. Ma'am." Tim says, and shoulders his gun; "As a Time Lord, that's all you can know. But you need to know this, ma'am."

_What?_ You're getting more and more confused by the minute- Farringham, a random place in London, is all you need to know? And what is it with the- Wait, how does he know you're a Time Lord?

Is he some sort of Time-lord hunter? Or another race, perhaps. Surely nothing to do with Daleks or...?

You frown. "But that doesn't work. How will I know?"

"Someday, Ma'am." He says, and even though you know he's just human you can't help but suspect-does he know something? More than the rules of time, more than your philosophy. He seems to _know_ you, like someone you kept close to your heart told him. Someone like... someone like...

Someone like the Doctor.

You can feel your pulse spike up at that notion- the Doctor told him- but you have to calm yourself. The Doctor is dead. You didn't meet him in any travels so he probably knows that from your future, his past. The Doctor died in the Time War, as did every single one of your species. The only one left is a traumatized six hundred and ninety-two year old youngster who doesn't even have a TARDIS, just a cheap vortex manipulator that she pulled together with scrap parts.

And as for your age- you fiddle with the sonic and sigh. You'd been the youngest soldier in your squadron, probably in the whole battalion; just a mere four hundred then having joined the time war somewhere in the middle. Of course you hadn't wanted to go; you'd just joined so that you could find him more easily, with more resources.

Lost in thought. Your hand forms into a tight fist, automatically, as you remember, relive the moment again. The pain, and the anger. _So much anger._

What are you afraid of, (Y/N)? He'd asked. You'd said everything. You were afraid of everything. And that girl, that little kid who'd insisted life was the scariest thing ever, had gone on to kill and plunder and mass genocide. Her eyes had lost focus, grown hazy in the anger; _how DARE you take him away?! How DARE you take our planet?_

And when you'd seen it with your own two eyes, screaming with no one to hear in that blasted escape pod, you'd slammed on the glass so hard the sides of your hands turned a splotchy red-and-purple and your nails broke. You'd screamed the names of everyone you could think of, your Captain who'd made the last effort to save you, your friend, your children, _the Doctor._ And when you'd been worn down, your swollen hands clasped against your chest and tears streaming down your face, you'd been just.... numb.

You'd set the destination of your- no, your _Captain's_ vortex manipulator to Earth, because that was the only planet you could think of. The only place where you could get at least an ounce of comfort, because wherever you went _his_ signs were there. A blue box, engraved in the edge of the tainted glass window of a cathedral. A man with a police box and a girl, engraved in the pyre of a old Roman household. Incantations of him you'd never seen before. Always looking, but never finding the _real_ him- you'd given up any hope that he'd lived through the explosion.

And as for your past-

"We're here!" Jocrassa interrupts.

_What, already?_ You want to question her but you'r estill groggy from the trip down the memory lane- too many flashbacks lately- and just nod, looking up; the ship is there, a vast vessel the size of an apartment flat. Oh, look at you, growing all native.

And then he turns, a glint in his eyes. You catch the slight look of malice; that look, you've seen it before.

Oh god. You've been too preoccupied with what might be a potential paradox with you and Latimer, as well as being so sentimental, that you've almost forgotten about the other things- important questions-

Like, _why is he leading them to his ship so easily?_

"Behind me!" You yell, just as several Slitheen pounce out from inside the ship. You reach one hand inside the fabric of your dress, hand ready and grazing the tip of your sonic. One of them head towards Tim and your soldier instincts lash out, for a moment you see a flash of the war you'd fought.

Not even a hundredth of your training, woken up from back in the days, and you strike, sending the Slitheen flying across the marsh, a football field away. It lands on the ground with a _squelch._

The other two back away, eyes wide with fear- good, they're at least a little frightened- but they gain confidence as soon as the one you kicked stumbles back up and heads towards you.

Behind you, you can feel Tim's and Jack's eyes staring at you- in horror? Anger? Surprise? You don't know, but that's not important right now, _this_ is. "I knew you would backstab us." You claim, and lower your leg from its previous kick, slowly as to not let your muscles spasm. It has been a few years since you've used them to their full extent, after all.

"Did you really believe me when I said I was alone?" Jocrassa sneers, and her eyes are glinting with excitement at her new prey- you. "These are my brethren. Husprick and Korst."

Brethren. You snarl and quickly calculate the odds. Three against three- one of them is still in their skin suit, and out of the other two, the one you kicked _has_ to be dazed at least a little. You'd prefer not to use violence, and you guess that Tim would, too- problem is that you _don't_ see a way out of this unless you have a pint of vinegar or bombs. And you're pretty sure Jack can handle the lot, _if_ he has weapons. The only problem is that he doesn't.

Not very good odds, then.

"Winston's in there, then?" You ask, gesturing in the general direction of the ship. Jocrassa nods. Good, Winston is still alive- there's one thing you can do, at this peak of odds. _He_ had taught you this- that words were a man's greatest weapon. That what violence couldn't get you out of, words could. Typical of the Doctor, of course.

"Tell me, Jocrassa." You start off, crossing your arms. "Do you know who I am?"

"Why are you-" Jocrassa says, laughing, but you can see that it's starting to work, just a little bit. She seems intimidated, and you know for a fact that your name isn't exactly one not well known in the galaxy; _the companion of the Doctor. The lady of the blue box. Time Lady. The Detective. The companion of the wanderer, the path-seeker. The eye of the oncoming storm._

"You've chosen the wrong person to mess with, Slitheen." You say, and push up the sleeves of your dress, drawing out your Sonic; aiming at them, your finger on your button, you say, "I'm not the Doctor but I'm close enough."

The slitheen hiss- at the Doctor's name, no doubt, and you spin your sonic screwdriver, a deadly look in your eyes. The adrenaline is fully pumped up now, racing through your binary vascular system, and your brain is whirring like a well-oiled machine, calculating every odds of the fight. Of winning.

"My name is (Y/N) (L/N) and I'm a Time Lord. You might have heard of me." You say, and raise your chin. "Now who wants to die first?"

_Let's get to work._


	7. The First Clue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First clue! If you're here for the first time, please drop a kudos or a comment, that'd be really helpful :)  
> And enjoy the story lol

"(Y/N) (L/N)." The Slitheen repeat. _"Time Lord!"_

Oh, so they _have_ heard of you. You step forwards, flourishing the sonic screwdriver. "You've seen this before, ay? This is a sonic screwdriver. A weapon of the Time Lords. And if you don't want to get kablooey-eyed by this, _step BACK!_ "

The last part you shout and it seems to work, at least for a moment; the three Slitheens hiss and step back nervously, skittering, their eyes fixated on the humming of your sonic. You reach out, holding the bottle with 'vinegar' in the other, and they eye it nervously; good, you've got the advantage of fear.

Jack mumbles, "Any chance that can actually blow them up?"

"Nope." You say, a bit too cheerfully, and stepping forwards, spray the bottle at the Slitheen on the left. It makes contact with him and he shrieks, more of an instinct- but then stops. _Uh-oh._

"Welp." You say, remembering with a bit of embarrassment that you'd just been faking the whole vinegar thing.

"The Time Lord lied!" The one on the left wails, and lunges towards you. You turn your setting up a notch and aim it straight at the one coming towards you; an inhuman scream erupts from the small device and the Slitheen is hindered; but only for a second. Not long.

"Go, go, GO!" You yell, and the two follows you, rushing towards the ship.

"Why are we going _into_ the ship?!" Jack questions, desperately, as they reach the deck. You quickly hack the mainframe and rewire it with hands so fast they seem to blur. The Slitheen have recovered and are now heading towards you; you connect the last wire in the hatch and the door slides open with a creak.

"In! _In!"_ You shout, and the two, without question, head into the ship- you look back one last time at the Slitheen charging towards you, and dart into the ship.

"We beat your kind once before- we can do it again!" Jocrassa hisses. He reaches up and the Slitheen undoes the zipper on the skin suit to rids himself of the outside, leaving the green beast to step out. His true form writhes and you watch in slight disgust as he lets out a _aaahhh_ of relief. Gross.

They gallop closer and you aim your sonic at the door. It slams shut, blocking out their wails.

"Oh goodie." You say, planting your hands on your hips. "They can't get in."

"We can't get out, either." Tim points out.

You frown. Oh. "Ah." You say, wincing slightly, "Yes, we seem to be."

"So do you have a plan?"

"Yes." You lie, and then, tilting your head, notice them staring at you. "No." You admit, with a sigh of defeat. "I don't. Gimme a minute, I'll think of one."

"You'll _think_ of one?" Jack says, a little disbelievingly. "(Y/N), I don't think-"

"Hush." You say, and make your way to the nearest seat, sitting yourself down; _think, (Y/N)!_

"I'll go search below deck for anything." Tim volunteers. You nod, distractedly, and start thinking.

Eliminate first possibility; escape is first, getting rid of the Slitheens are second. You can maybe find weapons in here, but you'd prefer to give them a bit of a chance; anything anyone has?

A gun will do no good; Jack might have some tricks up his sleeve, he _is_ a man from the fifty-first century, but there's nothing of particular use as far as you know- is there maybe anything in the ship to help you? Maybe a few weapons to threaten them with (you don't want to shoot until you are _absolutely_ sure they will not give up at any cost), or-

"Can't you fly the ship?" Jacks suggests. You look towards him with a glance; "No. This is a long-distance traveling ship. It'd take three hours to launch, an atomic bomb, and a launch pad, neither of which we have."

_Bang._ Startled, you and Jack simultaneously look down at the hatch- have the Slitheen made it through?- but there is only the steady grinding of claws against a door that won't break, and the banging of angry fists. _Bang. Bang. Bang._

It reminds you, a little, of when you were back in the pod, banging your fists against the glass ... you'd been slightly claustrophobic ever since, but _concentrate, (Y/N)._

The fists seem to make you more desperate- _'hurry up!' it seems to say with every bang-_ and you can't help but fret a little, your brain going into overload as you _think, thiNK THINK_

What do Slitheen have? A calcium based body, skin suits, Slitheen transporter pendant-

Oh. _Oh._ You stand up lightning fast and grab your sonic screwdriver, rushing towards the pile of equipment in the corner. "Jack, I need you to help me find Slitheen transporter pendants. As many as you can find."

"All right." Jack says, stripping off his heavy jacket, and kneels down to help you. "What do they-"

"This." You say, knowing already what he's going to ask; holding up the first transporter pendant you can find. "By the size of the ship, they should have about seven or eight spares."

Wordlessly, Jack gets to work, sorting through the pile. You stop. "Oh, and compression field collars. The thing around their necks."

Settling yourself down so that you're more comfortable, you grab the pendants already there and split them open with your sonic, beginning to splice them together and reconnect the wires. Some of them are a bit old and rusty but it'll have to do; smoothing out your dress, you dump another load and begin the same work, binding, interweaving, joining all the structures of the pendant together. You weren't deputy head of science and technology research for nothing.

A little out of practice, though. You yank the self-destruct wire out (why do they even have that in there?) and replace it with the wire from the fifth, joining them together. Tuning the frequency of your sonic, you're just about grab the compression field collar and start on those when Tim comes back up, by the sound of his footsteps; "Ma'am?" He asks.

"Hmm?" You ask, preoccupied. God, you only need a bit more work-

"They're almost in." Tim points out, and your head whips towards the door and see that he's right. Indentations of claws and fists getting deeper and deeper. As another _bang_ follows, you can see it visibly dent the door and the hinges scream in protest. Not now, you're so close!

"There are no more compression field collars!" You hear Jack say. What? That ruins the- You curse.

"That ruins it." Gritting your teeth. "I don't suppose you have any-" Oh! Your eyes widen as you remember. Which foot did you use to kick that damn Slitheen? Left? Right? Right.

You grab your shoe, yank it off, bringing it to your face, and promptly smell it.

"That is _disgusting._ " Jack voices. Without so much as a look at him, you point at him, say, "Shut up", and proceed to wipe some of the mud off your very dirty shoe. The soles ought to do it; grabbing the one collar, you wipe your dirty hand on it and attach it to the vortex manipulator.

_Crash!_ The door is now hanging barely off its hinge; from the hatch, one long claw emerges and shoots a dart at your general direction. You catch it out of the air. "Good." You say, and pin it onto the collar, aiming the sonic at it.

"They'll be coming through." You grab the device; strange-looking as it is, it might just work. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes." Tim says, the same time Jack asks, "Are you crazy?"

"Yes." You repeat, and grin. "In three, I'll open that hatch and they'll come through. Enclosed in a small space. Tim, give me your helmet."

He frowns. "What for?" He says, but hands it over anyway.

You fix it onto your head. "Souvenir." You say, and aim your sonic at the door. The door explodes.

The three Slitheen rush through and immediately, startled, find themselves right in front of you. They seem surprised, and you tuck your strange device under one arm, aiming the sonic at them; "Stay right where you are."

They, surprisingly, do. Before you can rethink your plan, you turn your sonic so that it is aimed for the device under your arm. "This," You say, with as much confidence as you can muster, "Is a bomb."

They reel back. "Impossible." Jocrassa snarls, but his eyes are fixated on the bomb, "You will not do that; these humans mean too much to your kind."

There are a thousand questions writhing in your mind. For one, _what the hell does 'your kind' mean?!_

"Try me." You say, and make a move as if to turn your sonic on; they hiss and jolt backwards. Ah. So they _do_ believe you.

"What do you want?" The other one- Korst?- growls. You make a face- "Why do you guys all have to _growl_ or _hiss_ or _snarl?_ Can't you just... like, talk normally?"

They growl. Of _course_ not. Silly you.

"All right." You roll your eyes, and shake your head to let your hair fall back a bit from your eyes. "Firstly. What the hell is all this 'your kind' thing? You fought anyone like me?"

Maybe it's irrational, but you can't help but hold onto the one hope you have. Maybe- maybe, just _maybe,_ you're not alone. Maybe you have someone out there, someone who can help. Maybe. You don't care who it is, if and only if it's true- even, for god's sake, it's that creepy kid who always scared you in the academy- the Master? You don't _care._

Your heart is screaming. _maybe it's true. maybe 'your kind' means another time lord, alive, in this universe, in this time, maybe someone else survived-_

But they're not _responding,_ dammit!

"Your same kind." The Slitheen finally manages out. You narrow your eyes and he clarifies, that word- that word that sends your world crashing around you- "A Time Lord, he called himself."

_WHAT?_

_WHAT?!_


	8. Determination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i feel like the past few chapters have been focusing on her dark, sad side too much  
> i'll be focusing on better parts in the next few

_whA- WHAT?_

Your brain can't process the information. You can't deal with it. That word- time lord he's alive maybe what if it's someone you know and whatifhe'sstillouttherewaitingforyouand-

_"What?!"_ Your eyes are wide, a rekindled fire blazing in them. This- Slitheen, knowing about another Time Lord-

It could be past incantations of the Doctor, but you've never come across Slitheens _with_ other incantations. Not to mention- the whole Time War was time-locked. If he could- if-

_What?!_

Your hands feel sweaty, and you set your sonic up a notch, so that it positively screams. You need to do this. You need to find out the truth.

"That's setting JW-79. I turn that up to eighty and this will implode taking the ship _and_ you peeps with me. Do _not_ try my patience, do _not_ try my kindness, do _not_ try my hospitality, do _not_ lie to me. If you _dare_ lie I will fucking murder you, I will murder you and whatever family you have and I will throw you into the very depths of hell where you can burn for eternity, now answer me." Your voice is shaking, uncontrollable emotions crackling through your fingertips. _"WHAT DID YOU SAY!?_ _"_

The Slitheen makes a feeble hissing attempt. "I do not-"

The emotions- so many, welling up in your chest- you stride forwards, both objects still in your hands, and grab the Slitheen by his collar, pushing him past the other two and slamming him against the wall; "Do not try my patience; I am not a kind person, neither am I a very happy one. _What did you say?_ "

"They all died in the war." You say, and your voice quivers, your hands are shaking too; "They all died. I saw it with my own two eyes, the planet- all dead-"

The Slitheen- that damn thing- it takes the chance, grabs the bomb from under your fingertips. You can't let them go- they've fallen into your trap but _you NEED TO KNOW!_

You stagger back and your hand comes up to aim the sonic at the Slitheen, and your finger, unwillingly, turns the notch up.

The Slitheen disappear in a flash, and so does the ship you'd been standing on. That's when you really feel like dying, when the full brunt of your ages come down to crash on you, when you tumble down from thin air and land on the mud, when you feel like you're numb all over.

You had to think about everyone else. That was the only chance you would get. You _know_ that- you know that as well as anybody, that you can't think about just yourself. The Slitheen would have changed history, dropped nukes, salvaged the planet. That was the best- and possibly only- chance you ever hand. It was either you getting answers out of him, or you saving time.

But why can't you think about yourself? Why can't you at least have a shred of hope, hope about another Time Lord, hope about not being alone for once? Why?

Behind you, you can feel Jack's hand land on your shoulder, softly, and say, "Winston Churchill's awake."

_I don't think I want to be a Time Lord._

Well, you are. You can't whine about it, so quit it. You reach up and with numb fingers pull your face into the best, most confident smile you can muster; turning back, you look at Jack and say, "K. Take care of him, will you? I'll come in a minute."

When he turns away, you bury your face in your hands and stifle a sob.

_Never let them see you cry. You are their best, and only, hope. You need to look like a hero to them. No crying. No sadness. And definitely no insecurity._

You stand up and take a step. And another. And another, until you're walking like you should, and you kneel down, next to Winston Churchill.

"Winnie?" You call softly, shaking him. "Winnie, it's me, (Y/N)."

"(Y/N)." He repeats, and his eyes open slowly. "For god's sake, what are we doing in a bloody pit?"

You laugh. "Nothing." You say. "Can you remember what year it is?"

"But- Why of course, it's 1938." He says, looking flustered. "As a time traveler, you don't really have a sense of time...?"

Jack and Tim exchange looks with you.

"Who wants to tell him?" You ask, and immediately after; "Not me!"

* * *

"So do you want to tell me about what happened back there?" Jack says, coming to sit down next to you in the cushy chair. A blanket is wrapped around you and after a good shower, you are dressed in more comfortable clothes, the ones you found that this body likes - not a dress, never again- and a hot mug of coffee has been thrust into your hand.

"I patched together a hasty teleporter. Locks onto the nearest DNA strand, which was the little bits of Slitheen on my shoe, and in case that wasn't enough, the claw they tossed at me. Anything that has more than ten percent of similar DNA gets blasted off into a random place, in a random planet, in a random time." You say. The coffee is hot. Too hot, you would think. "Activation was setting JW-80."

"You know that's not what I'm talking about." Jack says. His voice is quiet but holds authority; you look down, in shame and anger and fear and excitement and a hundred different emotions.

"Yes." You agree. "I do."

"Then want to talk about it?"

You hesitate. Should you? Can you?

Do you _deserve_ to?

"Only if you promise to tell no one."

"I promise." He says, and there is sincerity in his eyes; you do believe that he wouldn't tell.

With a deep breath, you start the story you hadn't told anyone in near fifty years.

"I'm from a planet, called Gallifrey." You start. "You'd like it. It's the most beautiful planet in the universe, at least to me. Burnt orange sky, a huge city in a polished glass dome... it was my favourite place in the entire universe."

"Sounds like somewhere I'd like to go."

"It is..." You stop at that slip of the tongue. "It _was._ I worked there, in the science and technology section beneath the government. Reseearching new things. Graduated top of my class. I had a job, a life, a family."

_Family._ That word... tastes so bitter...

"I loved them... my mother, my father, grandparents, great-grandparents. I was a mother once, too. Children. And grandchildren. And... and-" You can't help but choke, the word stuck in your throat- "And a fiance. He was called the Doctor. Time Lords have a long lifespan, so they don't marry until they're sure. It's common to have more than just a few children but stay as a girlfriend and boyfriend."

"And then he showed a sign that he was sure." Jack fills in the blanks. "He proposed."

You nod. "We were going to marry, settle into a good life, and then... then the Last Great Time War broke out. It was the deadliest war we've ever been to. A war between us, the Time Lords, and the Daleks, for the sake of all creation. People were conscripted, forced to go to war. It was timelocked, so no one could get out... or get in. And god- it was _so deadly..."_ You can't go on. The memories, so long ago, still torment you; it's a wonder you can sleep at all, in the few times you do. "It... just my luck. My fiance joined the battle."

"Did you?"

"They told me he would be all right, that he was one of the best soldiers they'd seen. I didn't believe them. I willingly went to battle, enlisted and served, and fought on the front lines, because I wanted to find him, to be with him again. Jack, I was _so scared._ I was so young and so scared- the first time I was out at war, I was _paralyzed_ with fear. Couldn't move. Was helpless to do anything, and just fucking _watched_ as one of my senior officers gave their life for me. I was terrified. In Earth terms... like a teenager witnessing a genocide, forced to fight in it."

"But I had no choice. I pushed down my fear and fought because I had to. Killed left and right. I massacred _billions-_ " You look down at your hands and a sob escapes your throat. Blood-stained hands. "I was skilled, in that line of work. They called me a good soldier, but I was just a remorseless one, I was just fighting for my life. I didn't _care_ what happened to other races, to other people, as long as I could get my old life back with my job and with the Doctor."

"And then?" He prompts, softly.

"I risked everything for that war. _Everything._ Regenerated nearly four times over. Every time I just got used to that body and I just fought. I had to. I wanted to end this war as fast as possible, and I didn't care how I did it." Your voice takes on that tone, that tone that he used to say scared him a little. "I literally stepped out of a bloodbath, pushing away the remorse because of some selfish need. I was the perfect soldier, though, especially for such a peaceful civilization like ours; I fought with a cause, I fought well, I knew a TARDIS like the back of my hand, and I was willing to die. And you know what? At the end, that was all for nothing, because _everyone died._ "

"That's why you prefer not to use-" He starts, but never gets to finish his sentence; you're on a rant, trying to expel everything from your system.

"Would you want to use violence when you'd massacred near an entire civilization? When you'd killed and maimed and hurt because you were _scared?_ The Daleks were winning. Our race was too peaceful, too pampered, for something like this. They needed people like me to do the dirty work. So I fought more. Killed more. And _every fucking night I slept less because I kept dreaming of the people I killed._ One night, when I actually managed to go to sleep without a nightmare, one of my Captains woke me. Told me something big was going to happen, told me to get into the escape pod."

"When I refused, she knocked me unconscious, put me there. There was only one pod. She fired me out, and then- then- then a second later the whole planet exploded. Never knew what happened. Dalek weapon, or Time Lord mistake, whatever. It doesn't matter- all that does is the simple fact that the only survivor of one of the most superior races in the universe is a scared little coward that can't help whining about her PTSD."

And then all is silent, and the silence is deafening. Now that you've got it all out, you feel slightly better; so this is what sharing the burden is like. This is why people want to help.

His voice breaks the silence.

"No, you're not." Jack says, and his hand is covering yours, cradling it softly. "You're brave, and smart, and one of the most awesome girls I've ever met. So don't you dare say you're worthless."

"Captain Jack Harkness." You say, and manage to smirk. "Who said I was one?"

_In the end, you still smile, right? Isn't that what matters?_

He smirks back with an equally snarky expression.

"Nah, you're too sassy to be worthless." He decides, and reaching in, kisses you. His mouth is soft and experienced, and his hands are large but soft, your face cupped in his palm delicately. There is a wide grin on his face as he pulls away.

"I haven't kissed anyone in fifty years." Is all you can say. "I might be a little bit out of practice."

"Nah, you did fine." He says nonchalantly, and the two of you laugh and laugh and keep laughing, until Tim Latimer enters and watches the two of you with a slightly amused expression.

"Can I talk to you, ma'am?" He asks. "Go ahead," You say, but notice that he's staring at Jack rather pointedly; shrugging, you place your coffee (all cold now, dammit) on the table, and push Harkness towards the door. "Off with you, cowboy."

With a wink and a flourish to both of you, he exits the room dramatically and closes the door behind him. You turn and tilt your head; "Sup."

"Ma'am-" He starts, but you roll your eyes; "It's (Y/N). We've battled Raxacoricofallapatorians together, call me by my real name. Ma'am. Makes me feel old."

Tim stifles a laugh.

"Oi!" You punch him in the shoulder. "What's wrong with- anyways, what did you want?"

"Oh, I came to give you this." Tim says, and from his pocket he draws a... fob watch.

You stare at it. It's nothing but an ordinary fob watch, and when you click it open it does nothing but tell the time; you frown in disgust. Eww. Uninteresting and too... normal. You hate normal. "Eww."

"Turn it over." He suggests. You do, and your mouth parts immediately at the Gallifreyan engraved across the surface; how did he- how did he get hold of that?

"What is this?" You ask. "How did-"

"It used to be a biodata module." Tim says, and at your expression, immediately says; "That's what the person who gave it to me said, anyway. He said this was for some kind of... chameleon arch?"

A chameleon arch? Biodata module? This is _way_ too complicated for any other species. In fact, a biodata module is... it's... it's Time Lord Technology.

Which means- in your future, in his past, you _might_ just... the Slitheen might not have been lying...?

"Who gave this to you?" You question immediately, turning it over. Okay, not boring anymore, then. "What was his name?"

Tim looks like he wants to say something, then stops; he merely says, "His name was Mister Smith."

"Smith." You muse; inside you are buzzing with excitement. There's only one person you know who uses that alias, only one Time Lord. And if what you think is true, you've hit the jackpot. "Good strong name, Smith. Say, Timmy boy, his first name doesn't happen to be John, does it?"

"It- Well, it does, ma'am..."

You close the watch with a grin. "Then I've certainly hit the jackpot."

* * *

"When will I ever see you again?" Jack questions as you stand in front of the three of them- Tim, Jack and Winston, rolling your sleeves up. "Where?"

You peer at him and tilt your head; raising your other arm to roll up the cuffs, you say as nonchalantly as you can, "I'm not sure. Maybe a hundred years, maybe never. Maybe, if I'm lucky and if this fob watch belongs to who I think it is, then sooner than I'd expect."

"So you're off, then." Winston says, sitting in the office chair, his hand clutched around a pipe. For someone who's just received news that they'd been under a coma for three years while someone else has been gallivanting around pretending to be him, he's pretty calm; he peers at you from under his spectacles and breaks into a wide grin. "The best of luck, my dear."

"You too, Winnie." You say, and hold out your fist; until remembering, "Oops. Forgot that fist bumps were invented in the twenty-first century."

Jack laughs. You stick your tongue out at him and walk over to the mirror, admiring the first non-dress you've worn in a long time. A button-up white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, loose high-waist black slacks, black women's oxford shoes with slight heels, and, oh, a 'borrowed' trench coat. Not bad... not bad at all.

"Well folks." You say, tapping the floor with your shoes to make sure they're sturdier than the last time; "I'll be off then. Don't get into any trouble, and _you-_ " You point at Jack, who looks at you with mock surprise; "Don't flirt with too many people."

"Yessir." He says, and before you know it he's taken two large steps and taken you into his arms. You pat his back, awkwardly (you're not good with hugs, okay?) and grin as he lets go, turning to the next person.

"Timmy boy." You say, saluting, "Meet you in the past."

"Yes, ma'am." He salutes back, and you turn to the last person; Winston.

"Winston," You say, and lean over the table to give him a lookover; "I'm sorry for your... stolen three years, I really am."

"It wasn't your fault." He says. That's Winnie for you- accepting. "And I haven't aged a bit- I'll be fine."

You grin. "If you say so, old man." You tease, and step back, your hand turning the vortex manipulator's settings around. "Oh, goodie. Here we go again."

And with that final word, you vanish into thin air.

* * *

"Doctor." Jack says, cautiously. He can't believe it. He can't believe he actually found him. "You're the Doctor?"

"Yes...?" The Doctor says, and he's slightly confused. Jack can see why she'd like him; that mischievous smile that had been there a second earlier, that playful way he'd spoken to Rose. And _(Y/N) had been so close._

He's not an idiot; Jack knows about time travel. He knows what could happen if people tell others the right things at the wrong times.

Chaos.

But she'd seemed so sad. (Y/N), so broken, that smirk gone from her face and replaced with fear, with anguish, with hopelessness. And that's when he'd thought, when Jack had promised to himself that he would help any way he could. So that (Y/N) could be happy again. Who knew, too? Maybe he really was a genuinely nice person.

"Do you know someone called (Y/N)?" He asks, cautiously.

The Doctor's head whips towards him. "How do you know that?"

Jack Harkness knows it's no joke. He can see that in the Doctor's eyes, that desperation, that fire. The same expression (Y/N) had made, back when she'd been with the Slitheen, back when she'd been told about the fob watch. That fire, and in that fire, the tiniest glimmer of hope.

Jack Harkness would help fate. Give the same for him as fate had given her. Let them find their way back to each other, if they were in the right place, right time.

"There are stories..." He starts, and the Doctor listens.


	9. Desert and Thoughts

_Ugh._

You can't breathe.

_Ughhhhhhh._

Wait- Oh, yes. You can.

Your throat feels dry and cracked and ready to collapse, really, so you turn over with an _umph_ and let out a low groan. You're lying on something; a patch of something. That something is everywhere- in your eyes, in your nose, in your mouth. Eww. Gritty. You can feel something hard pressing against your thigh, and it's _really_ hot right now. Where did you land? In a microwave?

You place your hand on the floor and immediately let out a yowl, retracting it. You need some gloves. Fingerless ones would be nice. The floor seems to be _burning,_ some kind of weird material- did you finally manage to land on the twenty-first century...?

Groaning, you roll back over and open your eyes a teeny bit, only to close them again. A sun. Bright. _Too_ bright.

But it's brought back a bit more of your consciousness; you spit out a bit of that gritty stuff and lean down to smell the ground; perfect sand.

Which means... you're in the desert?

Oh, good. Before this you'd been in a planet covered in ice, and now this? It's _really_ getting annoying. Just because you actually have a purpose in traveling doesn't mean the whole world has to try and stop you; you'd vortex manipulated a total of four times since you'd found out about Mr. Time Lord and still: nothing.

But coming to your senses; you try your best to find anything you can with the best of your ability. The thing pressing against your thigh is the sonic in your pocket; with fumbling hands you barely manage to draw it out and point it at the ground; you're on Earth, that much you can know. But where and when... that's the question. Not to mention you're not sure there will be any people here to ask.

"Hello?" You manage out. Throat parched. "Anybody?"

No answer. You groan and manage to stumble up. You're _burning_ so you take off your trench coat but that's it; any more clothes off and you'll get solar radiation and sunburn. Not a very nice notion.

The trench coat you sling across your shoulder and you put your hand above your eyes, shading them from the sun; reaching out, you aim your sonic all around and scan the place for the nearest source of water, since you won't survive very long without it. Thank god it's not a long distance away. A few miles to walk, but you'll manage that just fine. How hard can it be?

More than that, the problem is the heat; you won't last very long under this scorching sun. You need shade, and _fast._

You only hope that wherever the water is, the heat is, too. No time to waste- you begin walking in the direction of the nearest source of water as you scan for life forms. A few lizards, bugs, insects, nothing much of significance. No humans, at least not in the hundred-mile radius.

Just your luck. You manage to land yourself in the one place where you _can't_ get help. At least it's Earth, though- you'd hate to land yourself in Glom or something.

God knows how long you've been walking. There's no water and certainly no shade; you can feel yourself grow hotter my the minute and the only thing that's protecting you is the luck that you had the sense to put on long sleeves. _Keep walking._

The numbers on your sonic keep dropping. Three miles; two point eight.... two point seven... You can get yourself going but you know you can't keep this on forever. Your strength is already weaning, your legs quivering ever so slightly. The words _how hard can it be?_ seems to tease you.

You _really_ shouldn't have jinxed it. You need to find out where and when this is, and if you have a good notion of where, then you can find out more about that mysterious 'other' Time Lord. You'd set the destination as vague as you could with a mere 'TARDIS' so that it would follow the TARDIS' tracks: but you'd had no idea that it could even work. Well, that's fifty-third century technology for you (stop two).

But anyways; you manage to cover about half a mile before you decide that yes, you are a mere Time Lord and yes, you need rest. The sky is darkening rapidly and you know from a bit of experience _(thank you,_ fifth incarnation of the Doctor) that deserts are not pleasant in the night, so you manage with a slight struggle to put your coat on. It reaches mid-ankle so it doesn't sweep the floor.

And then you walk. You seem to walk a long while. You lose track of time, only the burning sensation of your face, the coat rubbing against your bare forearms, how your shoes seem to sink into your ground with every step, every step that seems to get harder.

You realize after half a mile that the only reason you're still going on strong and able to walk normally is because of your army training; okay, maybe slightly useful. There's still rashes appearing in your face, and the back of your neck feels like it's burning.

You point your sonic at yourself- nearly seventeen and a half degrees Celsius. God, you're burning up. Your condition is not a good one, especially with what had happened before you'd vortex manipulated out of there; if you'd known you'd be there you would have drunk as much water as you could.

But you can't give up now, no; there's only half a mile left, and you pour your strength into getting there. Nearest water... after that you'd find the nearest civilization and get answers out of them, even if you had to wring their necks. The half mile seems to be the longest you'd ever experienced. Forwards, forwards, forwards, but never quite reaching where you're supposed to-

Until... is that a lake?

First you try to let your hopes down so that they won't fall when you find out it isn't. Look at it! It's a mirage. Obviously. Too good to be true. You've encountered plenty of mirages before, you even know _why_ that happens, you won't be beaten by one stupid thing.

However as you get closer you can spot how real it seems. It doesn't run away from you like a normal mirage does, and you can feel the coolness _radiating_ from it.

Jackpot.

You rush towards the oasis and find that it's civilized- tiles lining the fountains, a grand house. Egyptian? Greek? You're not quite sure. Somewhere around there. You've failed, then. This is most definitely not the twenty first century.

That's not important, though, what is is that you're alive! A slightly delirious grin on your face, you rush towards the water and scoop the water up, remembering by a slight second that you need to scan it for any harmful material. You do and find none. Huh.

Civilized? Who lives here? It seems to be empty the last time you saw, but you drink up the water anyway, and lie in the shade with a giddy smile. You suppose you'll just wait out here until people come. It's not a long while, after all. The only problem is that now you're not thirsty nor hot, now you're _really_ bored. You look around for something to fix, anything, and find barely anything; the only place you _haven't_ been to is that house, except you're not sure whether you _should_ go- obviously it's breaking and entering.

Nah, you're sure they won't mind. You open the door with a easy shove (don't they _lock_ doors back in this time?) and stride in, taking a good look around. It seems rather well made for somewhere in the desert. Almost certainly Egyptian, you'd say, with a bit of Greek mixed in. Based on the tiles, somewhere in the B.C.

Oh, and something to fix! You've adjusted the pumps and fixed the pipes when you notice the fountain; ooh, you love water! For you, it's like being in Disneyland- so many fun things!

Grinning, you hike up the bottoms of your pants and take off your shoes, socks and coat, wading into the fountain. Smack dab in the middle of the fountain is a sphinx, from its mouth a pipe spewing water. You get the design- it was originally supposed to run the water in a perfect arc and land in the water- but right now the sphinx is ticking and the pipe is slightly twisted. A few pipes loose, you think. Easily fixed. You push up your already rolled up sleeves and place your sonic in your mouth, squatting and leaning up to grab the sphinx's face (sorry, man).

You've just gotten around to making a few adjustments, bending the weak pipes with your fingers and rolling them with the best of your ability, using the sonic to get it adjusted better when somebody coughs behind you.

_What? Who? How? Whe- huh?_

You leap up, hiding the still-buzzing sonic behind your back, and immediately get sprayed with a mound of water from that blasted fountain. You stagger back a few steps and turn around to see-

"Cleopatra!" You yell in Ancient Egyptian.

It's no lie; Queen Cleopatra of Egypt is standing there, accompanied by a dozen guards, her khol-lined eyes smoldering with anger, but also... fascination?

"Who are you and what are you doing in my fountain?" She states. Oh, she looks like the drawings. Short black hair perfectly cut to her chin, eyes lined with khol and a beautiful, regal face. You feel oddly... dwarvish. Not very ladylike at all.

"Hello!" You wave at her and her guards, grinning giddily. "I'm Doctor (Y/N)! I was just... uhm, fixing your fountain! You must be Cleopatra."

"I was not aware I called for someone to _fix my fountain._ " Crossing her arms, she stares you down. You blink, puzzled; why does she look so angry?

Oh, right. You're basically trespassing in her home. You raise your hands at the guards, who are aiming their weapons at you; "Unarmed, don't shoot! Shooting is bad! Cleopatra-"

"How did you get in here?" She demands, again. "And it's _your majesty_ to you."

"Okay, your majesty." You say, frowning. "Who spit in your cheerios? If you had to know, just walked through the front door."

She seems baffled; when you raise an eyebrow, she explains why: "That door was locked and bound with one of the strongest metals I could find."

"Oh, was it?" You say, turning back around; this is not very interesting. "Well, it's not very strong if I can open it with my bare hands, _your majesty._ " Leaning back down, you bring the screwdriver out of your pocket and bleep the fountain; it gives a few spits before the water streams out, now in a perfect tri-arc. "Aha. Smooth as a Abzorbaloff's tummy."

They seem startled when you turn around. You frankly have no idea why.

Stepping out of the fountain, you undo the rolled-up bottoms of your slacks as you talk; "So, what time is this, anyway? How long has it been since you've reigned? Three? Two years?"

"Whoever you are-"

You groan. "Weren't you _listening?_ I said I was Doctor (Y/N)! Or do you prefer _Time Lord,_ Lady Cleopatra?" You say, and in a few strides you're right in front of her, your sonic aimed at her throat. "Don't pretend you don't know me."

"How _dare_ you." She says, and her eyes are smouldering. "Breaking into a royal home, threatening the queen... are you not aware that those are fatal crimes?"

"Oh," You laugh. "Oh, yes, the (Y/N) is fully aware. The only catch is that the (Y/N) does not _care._ " You turn away from her and head towards your shoes, wiping your foot on a cloth that you're pretty sure was supposed to clean the tiles. Sitting down, you start putting your socks on, and as if you are contagious the soldiers reel away from you. "Now, I'm sure you're aware of why I'm here."

She shakes her head, and her eyes are filled with rage. "How _dare_ you come into my royal home and demand answers out of _me?_ Guards!"

The guards surge towards you but you just let out a sarcastic snort; "If I were you I wouldn't do that."

They glance at each other nervously, then at Cleopatra; you put on your ankle boots and stand up, stuffing your hands in your pockets. Hah. That trick works every time.

"Why not?"

"Well," You say, crossing your arms, "I know how to fix whatever weird thing that's going around here."

They freeze. Cleopatra seems half convinced; probably ready to do anything for the sake of Egypt. "Whatever problem?"

You nod and lean forwards, grinning. "Ah. That's the catch. Something's happening, isn't it? Something that's not explainable. Probably you think it's the wrath of the gods. I can help."

She looks at you, and then there's the slightest glimmer of hope in her eyes. Oh, dear. Whatever's happening must be serious.

"I knew a man like you, once." She says, almost softly. "He offered to help."

"His name was the Doctor." You guess. Her eyes snap up- _bingo!_

Queen Cleopatra scans you over, and with a regal look, says, "We will discuss this matter in the afternoon. Tomorrow I will take you to the problem, which hopefully, you _will_ solve. If not," And there is a twinkle in her eyes as she says so; "There will be consequences."


	10. Poison

You step out to the courtyard, dressed in a cotton dress, cinched in the middle. You've kept your shoes, but your eyes are lined with khol, your face made up, and your hair braided with strands of gold thread; your body is scrubbed clean and smoothed with oils. The product of maids scrubbing you in a tub for half an hour, you suppose.

"You look better." Queen Cleopatra remarks as the two of you sit down. "We are quite similar in size."

"Uhm... I suppose these are your clothes. Thanks." You say, sheepishly; you don't want to ruin her mood by telling her that you've sewn pockets in her clothes to put the sonic and the fob watch in. "These are really comfortable."

The two of you sit down on the table and you squirm, awkwardly. Dammit, you never asked to be alone in a dining courtyard with Cleopatra! You're awkward!

The maids start bringing out food and you notice with a slight discomfort that you're starving; you haven't eaten in a long while. And, since you're not that picky as a time traveler, you dig in.

It takes you a few minutes to realize that Cleopatra is watching you amusedly; you look up and ask, "Is there something on my face?"

"I mean... no." She says, and unexpectedly, the regal face that she'd kept throughout the day falls and she laughs. "You seem so... otherworldly."

You give her a frown. "Is that supposed to be a compliment, or what?"

"Just rather strange." Cleopatra says, and you have no idea why she's laughing but she is as you take the thing in your goblet and give it a good sniff.

"What _is_ this stuff?" You ask, but before she can respond, down the whole thing- "Wine." She answers, too late. You raise your eyebrows and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

"Good wine. Better than the Celtic, anyway. Ugh, _that_ was horrid." You shudder, setting your goblet back on the table, and watch as Cleopatra seems to laugh at you; huh. That's a bit of a weird feeling, being laughed at. "Am I really that funny?"

She seems to regain her senses, then, and looks at you with seriousness; "This is hardly the point, Doctor (Y/N). Can you truly help with the problem?"

"Can I?" You grin and lean back, hands behind your head. "Of _course_ I can. Whatever it is. Trust me. Now... what exactly _is_ this problem?"

She seems desperate. You respect desperate people; there is hardly anything in the world that can stop people if they are desperate. Not to mention that you know that feeling, a lot...

"Crops." Cleopatra says, and she seems serious; she plucks a honeyed date from a dish and studies it with a grave expression. "Our crops are dying."

That's... it?

You frown. Crops are dying? There's nothing more to it? No flying saucers, no extra-terrestrials? She wants you to help grow a few plants? "Give 'em some water. Some shade, if they sun's killin' em. Nothing to-"

She cuts in.

"Something is intentionally killing them, (Y/N)." She says. "There are stories... stories that do not make sense, yet people swear they saw it with their own two eyes. Stories that..." She shudders. "That the ground comes alive and eats them. And once in a while, the ground takes one of my own people... a child... a worker... a mother... "

Eats them? Comes alive? Taken people?

_What?_

You sit up, and your elbows are on the table, supporting your chin as you think. This is _much_ more interesting... much more grave. "You're going to go into famine if you don't solve this problem, yes? More people will die?"

"Correct." Cleopatra says, and even though she looks as calm and collected as ever she seems to be quivering ever so slightly. "I plead you, Doctor (Y/N)... help us."

You frown. "I need more information. I need to see the exact scene. What happens _after_ that night? Any after effects, or do you just find the crops in the morning... dead?"

She bites into the date, and answers after a while. "When we find the place in the morning, it is reduced to sand. Farmland is turned to unharvested desert and the Nile seems more and more drained by the day. At this date, we will be unable to continue to harvesting season."

_Reduced to sand?_ So something's taking her crops and people, leaving behind only sand... you mentally run through the list of alien species. Anything that would do this? You can think of a few but nothing that actually fits the description straight-up. Nothing that would intentionally do this...

Unless, of course... You shake your head. No way. This couldn't be...

Noticing your silence, Cleopatra raises her goblet and asks, "(Y/N)?"

You frown. "You'll take me to the scene tomorrow, yes?"

"Correct, but..."

"What colour was the sand? I'm assuming it doesn't look like normal sand."

"No, it was black sand."

The guards, you note from over Cleo's shoulder, eye each other nervously. "The wrath of the gods." One of them mutter. You narrow your eyes- wrath of the gods usually refers through when the king is a bad ruler, or...

"You," You say, standing up, and Cleopatra seems startled; you pay her no mind, instead striding over to the soldier who had spoken. "What's your name?"

"Aaheru." He responds. You turn to the other one; "And you?"

"Rory Williams."

You give him a once-over. "What kind of Egyptian name _is_ that? Takes the fun out of everything. Anyways, you, Ahaha-"

"Aaheru."

"Ahera or whatever, how old are you?"

"Just turned thirty, miss..."

You narrow your eyes, adding it up. "Got a lover, I suppose? Tall, black hair, pretty?"

"Y- yes, but how would you..." You don't want to tell him it's low-level telepathy, that would take the fun out of everything, so instead you turn back. You have a theory going on inside your head here. You turn to Cleopatra. "So anyways-"

Only to find her writhing silently on the floor, her eyes wide and panicked, gasps erupting from her mouth. You rush over, and so do the soldiers; "Your majesty!"

You stare and scan over the scene; at the goblet lying on the floor. You kneel over and pick up a few drops with your finger, smelling it quickly as you don't have much time. Instantly recognizing the smell.

"Cyanide." You say, and narrow your eyes. "Someone has poisoned your queen."

"Get a medic!" Rory- his name was?- shouts. You stop him- "That won't help, Williams. C'mon and give me a hand."

He seems desperate, as do the other soldiers all gathered around you. "She will die!" Aaheru shouts. You grab her and lay her down so that she's more comfortable. Saving a life.

_Get to work, Doctor (Y/N)._

Taking a deep breath, you lean down and your mouth meets Cleopatra's.

You grab your sonic with your other hand, the hand that's not supporting her neck, and buzz her. You immediately feel everything taking effect; Cleopatra starts twitching under you, and you can feel pain wrecking your body, the poison entering.

Detaching your mouth from hers, you ignore the looks from the guards and turn the queen over on her majestic back, kneading your hands together in a makeshift hit and pound her back once with as much strength you have left. The guards surge forwards but stop as she lets in a huge, gasping breath, turning over and sitting up dizzily.

"What-"

Goodie, she's awake, now about your own health- you manage to stagger up and ignore the feeling as though your stomach is collapsing in on itself. "You! Rory Williams! Fetch salt!"

"But-"

"NOW!" You roar, and gasp as another round of pain shoots through you; your legs begin to buckle out underneath you and you catch yourself on the edge of the table. "I need protein, alcohol, _ginger!_ Cleopatra, wake up! Where's the ginger?!"

"I'm- I'm sorry?" She says, and you salvage the table; fish- that's protein! You grab the plate and pour the whole thing into your mouth, ignoring the pain pounding at your chest.

"You!" You yell, pointing to a soldier. "Get ginger! Kitchens! Now!"

"But-" He glances towards the queen, who stares at you with a sort of entranced wonder; but when you let out a strained gasp, turns to the soldier: "Do as she says, now!"

"Ginger?"

"Yes, GINGER!" You yell. "Alcohol! My cup wasn't-" You suck in a breath through your teeth and lunge at the cup, pouring it into your mouth, downing the whole thing. "Ginger and salt! RORY WILLIAMS!"

Oh, you're not going to last long- you clutch at your chest and lose your balance, falling down onto the ground, cradling your body in pain; Cleopatra seems desperate as she reaches towards you, and Rory Williams bursts through the door, holding a jar of salt. He hands it to you, gingerly, and you grab the jar but can't _unscrew it, dammit-_

It _hurts-_ You grab the jar and smash it on the floor, sending clay and salt flying in all directions, but scoop up as much as you can and shovel it into your mouth, ignoring exactly how much salty that is. "Where's the ginger! GINGER!"

"Ginger, where is it?" You're starting to feel slightly better, but you're still missing one ingredient. The soldier's feet appear in your line of vision and you grab the ginger from him, breaking off a chunk and stuffing it into your mouth, reaching over to down another dose of wine; "Finally!"

You grab the table and push Cleopatra's hands away, staggering to your feet; "Shock! Shock me!"

Cleopatra's hands are flying; _"How?"_

"Doesn't matter!" You gasp. Just a bit more; "Shock!"

Desperately, she grabs a cup full of cold water and sprays it into your face, leaving you spluttering; you arch your back- finally!- and the pain recedes; you open your mouth and a grey mist flies out, integrating and disappearing into the air. You fall back onto the ground with a _thump,_ breathing heavily.

"I'm alive." You breathe, panting; "I'm alive, I'm alive...."

Cleopatra is staring at you in both horror and wonder, and so are the soldiers. You glare up at them. "Whatcha lookin' at?"

"But... that's not possible." She murmurs. "What did you do?"

"I took the cyanide out of you and transferred it into my own body." You tell her. "And then I expelled it in gas form. Protein, Salt, Alcohol, Ginger and a shock. That'll do it. Don't try it on yourselves, though. Only works for Time Lords like dear old me."

"You seem... fine." She says. You roll your eyes.

"I am. Refreshed, actually. Now, can someone help me up or do I have to sit here with a piece of clay in my back all day?"

Cleopatra gives you a judging look, and then, to your surprise, she holds out her hands, helping you up with surprising strength. You stumble up and run your fingers through your hair, at the soldiers who are looking frightened, at Cleopatra who looks the most grateful you've seen her-

"Someone tried to poison you."

Small talk is _impossible_ to make if you're a Time Lord. You mentally slap yourself.

"Y- yes." Cleo says, and she regains a bit of her posture, turning much more formal. Huh. Reminds you of someone you once knew... "I must thank you for saving my life."

"Nah. No problem there. That's what I do." You wink and seat yourself on the table, cradling your goblet in your hands. "Problem is, how and why?"

"I shall inform the guards to keep a better lookout tonight." She says; "There must be an impostor in the kitchen. I usually have my food tasted before me; I just assumed that because... because you'd eaten with no problem, I would also..."

You look at her and you see yourself; frightened, and you realize that it's the early years of her regime. She is not the perfectly composed, postured and regal queen that people make her out to be; she is just a scared ruler trying her best to do what she can for her regime. Just like you'd been, back when you were in the war. Your expression, reflected onto hers; a forced look of calm while hiding a shaking form inside.

_No one_ can be all right from being shocked like that.

"Oh, your majesty..." You sigh, and walking over to her, wrap an arm around her; you doubt she ever hugged anybody, based on how uptight she needs to be. "I'll help you."

"What do you want?" She asks. "It cannot be unconditional. Gold? Power? My throne?"

"Nope." You shake your head and turn away from her, leaning down to scoop up the goblet; you withdraw the sonic from your pocket and start scanning the goblet for any foreign DNA. "Just some information."

"About Rome? Greece? Egypt?"

You make a face as you look down at the goblet- no other DNA. They must have given it a good wipe. "About the Doctor."

She pauses from reaching towards a honeyed cake. Her eyes are wide as she turns to you; "How...?"

"That's all I need in exchange for solving your entire problem. Not hard, is it?"

Cleopatra stops. She seems to think, for a moment; then turning around, she asks, softly, "Who are you?"

You give her a questioning glance.

"You seem so similar to him, but so different. The same wand, the same way of flaunting around. Yet you seem so different. While he sometimes goes over the line, you never step over it. Not an inch. You are much more controlled. Your eyes are more serious, more older."

Is that what people see you as? A Doctor who keeps the line?

"So I ask you; who are you?"

"Will you answer me if I tell you?"

She nods.

You look towards her, at her questioning eyes, and you don't say anything as you throw your coat over one shoulder; but as she sits, and waits, you stand up from the table and you say, "I'm his companion. His friend. The only thing keeping him back from lashing out against the whole world." Present tense.

"I'm his wife."

Her eyes are wide; of course she hadn't known. The Doctor rarely tells anyone about his involvements.

"See you tomorrow, Lady Cleopatra." You say, and with a flourish of your arm, the door shuts behind you, leaving a startled queen, unspoken words, and a possible future.


	11. Messages for the Doctor

"I first met him a year ago, in the same place I met you." She says. "There was a strange blue device, and he was alone, like you. He called himself the Doctor."

The two of you are on a chariot, accompanied by the guards, as you travel along a bumpy road in the morning. The chariot shudders but seems to keep still most of the time; you stretch, back in your button-up and slacks (the trench coat had been just too hot) and listen as Cleopatra fulfills her part of the deal.

"He was mystical. He told us he was a Time Lord, just like you did; He talked just like you, acted similarly, and was even clad in similar wear; certainly not from these lands. He had brown hair and wore such a coat as yours, with a blue tunic. And such strange shoes..."

You cough. She thankfully seems to snap out of it.

"Ah. Yes. The point is, he came and stayed for a few days... offered to help with a problem as you had. He was the strangest man I'd ever seen, but he was a good man."

"And then he left." You guess.

"Yes. But..." She hesitates for a moment before speaking. "He had promised to come when I call him any time in the future."

"So you can summon him."

She nods, cautiously. You frown. "All right. If I ever need to help you deliver a message, I'll call you or something. But as for the current-"

"Halt!"

You glance over at the queen. "-let's focus on the problem at hand."

The Pharaoh seems to age ten years as the two of you step off the chariot; "Another one."

"Fresh this morning, hmm?" You ask, and the soldier- Rory- nods. Striding forwards, you survey the damage. It's simply huge- about a whole acre of nothing but sand, black as sin- and dead plants litter the scene. You can't see properly from this angle, though; glancing up, you find the nearest house- you grab a stool and set it down. It's just enough to reach the edge of the roof; you grab it, and swing yourself up, one leg after the other, to come sit on the edge of the roof. Full scale at a bird's eye view.

"How did you get up there?" The Pharaoh questions; you do nothing but hum in acknowledgement as you place a hand above your eyes, peering at the sight. Looks like some kind of... sinkhole, or a quicksand... and the weirdest thing is, it doesn't look natural at all. It's a perfect square, starting from the start of the farmland and stopping right at the fence.

No destruction, no signs of struggle, nothing. Just a mound of sand, but it's strange- wisps of steam rising from the sand, and the crops crumbling; you draw your sonic from your pocket and jump down from the roof, landing next to Cleopatra and one of the guards.

"Did anyone touch it?" You ask. "Any disappearances?"

"No one ever touches the sand, they think it's bad luck-"

"Disappearances?"

"One. A small child."

You stride forwards and stop at the edge of the fence; grabbing the wooden edge, you swing yourself over and land on the black territory with a _fwoomph._

Behind you, you can vaguely make out Cleopatra and that soldier, both watching you. You squat down, staring at the gritty particles, and slowly you reach out and pick a tiny bit up with your finger, bringing it to your tongue. It's burning hot and tastes exactly like what you'd expected it to be.

Oh. So you'd been right.

"This isn't sand." You say, eyes wide. You sonic the ground and take a look at the readings; burning. "It's ash. The whole palce was sucked dry."

"Ash?" Cleopatra surges forwards, grabbing the edge of the fence; "You mean to say someone burned my crops?"

"No." You say. "There's more than that." Weird sensation. You bring your hand to the ground and hover it about an inch away from the ashes; a tingling sensation erupts in your palm. "Absorption."

_"What?"_

"Something's sucking Egypt dry." You explain, and crouch down, beginning to dig. "If you had to take nourishment, and if there was a whole country at your disposal, what would you choose? Of _course,_ the crops! The crops, because they're the most nourishment, and because they have the most nutrition. And look, the crops-" Striding over, you take on one of the dried-up plants and watches as the dry brown crumbles under your fingertips. "-they're not only dry, they're also sucked from nourishment." You aim your sonic at the dry plant and show the readings. "They're literally just carbon particles now. For what? Because someone is very, _very_ hungry. Egypt, a propsering country that grows more crops than any other superior regime."

"So this is the work of another kingdom, then?" Cleopatra asks. "Greece? Rome?"

"Oh, no, no. They had nothing to do with the this itself." You're on a roll now. "They simply don't have the technology for this. Primitive little humans. There's something more at hand, something like-" Your nails scrape bottom and you dig up the last bit. "Like this."

"And that is?"

You lean down at the hard rock under all that ash and aim your sonic at it; just as you thought.

"Terravile." You say. "Rock-based humanoids from the planet Terravillia. Twin planet of Pryovillia. They have an earth interior, sandstone exterior. Sucked all the nutrition from the ground, which is why your crops are turning to ash. And here's a word of advice for all of you, you get one flake of ash in your lungs and you're as good as dead. _Don't_ breathe it, _don't_ touch it, and do not definitely go near it."

"You speak strange languages." Cleopatra remarks.

Besides her, Rory reels away but his eyes are wide, staring at you; "You touched it!"

"Different biology from a human." You flick it off your finger. "I can survive it. But the question is... where is the ship?"

"The ship?"

"Escape pod. Ship. Whatever. It must be there... when has this been happening?"

"Ever since my regime started."

"Ever since-" You stand up and turn around, tilting your head, rushing towards them with your coat flying behind you. "Isn't that _weird,_ Cleo? Ever since your regime started, these Terraviles suddenly invade, take all the crops at night, why? Why now, why after you've gripped the throne?"

"Ptolemy." You speak, quietly. "That's why."

Cleopatra's eyes are wide.

There is a rumbling, deep in the ground, and you start to run- _"Run, all of you!"_ \- taking as many people as you can, pushing them out of the way as the ground splits, the ash flies everywhere, and chaos breaks loose.

A spray of ash comes flying towards the Pharaoh and you run towards her, grabbing her arm and pulling her along; "Your majesty, it's not _safe!_ "

"What _is_ that thing?!" She shouts. You look back- "Terravile. I told you."

The huge thing is nearly as big as a house, feet stomping towards you. A mere foot soldier. Your eyes analyze it as it heads towards the guards, who are attempting to jab at it with spears and swords; _"Idiota!_ That won't work!"

The Terravile leans down, and in one sweep, the guards are sent sprawling. Your eyes widen and you watch it as it staggers towards that guard who's helped you so much so far, Rory Williams-

_Think, think, think!_

Rock. You remember, when you went undercover in a hospital, Extracorporeal Shock Wave Lithotripsy, breaking kidney stones into smaller pieces-

Ultrasonic vibration might break the outer shell and its form! You turn the sonic up to the highest notch possible and take a deep breath, running towards the Terravile.

"Hey, you!" You yell. The Terravile's head turns, ever so slightly, and you run, searching for a break in its rock armor. It's humanoid, got to have the same weak spots-

With full force, you jab your sonic into its Achilles heel and press your thumb down on the button. The ultrasonic vibration radiates through its body and it begins to crack, the outer shell's stone crumbling and splitting into smaller and smaller pieces, leaving only a spillage of rich earth.

"Oof." You say, panting, and one hand in your pocket, turn around; to see the whole town staring at you in awe, their jaws slack and eyes wide with disbelief.

You run your fingers through your curls and let out a huff. "What?" You ask.

_"Isis!"_

"Wait- guys, no this is creepy, don't bow- what- hey- stop!"

* * *

As the chariot grinds to a halting stop, you hop off the chariot and grinning, walk over to the soldier. You'd rode a whole mile for this, and your ass _still_ hurts from that time you fell out. Okay, maybe it _was_ your fault, but still.

"Hey, Aaron!" You call to the soldier as you go closer. He seems startled, but regains his composure with a correction of: "Aaheru."

You give him a good once-over and then lean your face closer to his, scanning over his face and his heart rate; then, as quick as you'd come, you jump away and clap your hands together. "Whatever. Can I be introduced to your girlfriend?"

Cleopatra, next to you, splutters. "There is a time and a place-"

"And this is that time." You say. "Aaheru, can I meet your girlfriend? Where does she live?"

"In the city..." He seems startled. "But-"

The queen seems to have fully given over her trust to you; nodding, she tells the soldier, "As she says."

"Williams, follow us." You point. "And your majesty, are you going to stay or...?"

They start off towards the city. The walk is in silence, a foreigner, the Pharaoh and two guards... possibly the strangest combination possible. But they reach the city quickly, and by then your brain is running at its full scale, piecing the bits together- started right when her regime began, girlfriend, pulse rate increase, sonic pulse, the wrath of the gods-

"We're here." The announcement comes sooner than you'd expected. You draw your sonic, immediately going into attention, and sweep the queen and the guards behind you.

"But-"

"She's dangerous, Aragorn."

"Aaheru. But how-"

You cut off his words with a _shh!_ and the four of you enter the house. It's empty, and nobody seem to be there, but you can feel it; and even though it looks empty you take a look at the signs, signs that people were here until a few moments ago.

"Interesting." You muse, as you spot the fireplace. "Very interesting."

"What is?" One of the soldiers ask, behind you, and Cleopatra's hand is firm on your arm. "Really, I must protest, this is not our home-"

You laugh, pointedly ignoring the three of them; instead, you come to make your way towards the spare room. Tracks, leading up and out and-

"She's gone through the bloody window!" You bark a laugh. "C'mon, let's go find her."

As quickly as you can, you place a hand on the windowsill and swing your body out, catching sight of a hurriedly running figure in the near distance. Black hair, tall figure, white robes, that's your man. You take off into a run, as fast as possible, and it's not like she's exactly a fast runner because you've caught up to her in a near six seconds- as soon as you reach close proximity, you stop her.

"Bloody-" You pant. "-hell, woman, We just want to ask you some questions."

"You mock the gods." She curses.

"You mock the gods." You mimick. "No, I mock nobody but myself. Now come. Your _queen_ is waiting."

The girl- or should you say, the Roman- turns. "She is no queen!" She snarls in what seems to be an attempt to make you scared. It, unfortunately, does not work.

"Oh, look. Now you've given your position away, _vestal virgin._ " You grab her collar and press the sonic against her throat, flashing her a cheery grin.

_"What?"_ Comes the reply, behind you, and you turn to see the trio of Egyptians staring at you, stunned. You roll your eyes.

"Isn't it time you told them the truth?" You say, counting off on your fingers; "It was obvious, really. Low-level telepathic probing to find out a bit about you, a few lucky words here and there, and the cyanide was _so_ classic. It's like you're not even trying to hide!"

Half the time people don't understand what you're saying. Cut that, most of the time.

"Wh- what?" She stutters frantically.

"Rat it out." You say. "Come on. You, Aegon-"

"Aaheru."

"I suppose you two got together at work. She probably came to the palace, hmm? Probably made sure you were a guard before she started courting you. Refused sexual contact, always wore the same robes?"

"Y- yes, but how..."

"Yeah, that's because she's a vestal virgin. From Rome. You know, over there? Rome? Except don't worry, Cleopatra, it isn't the emperor who did this, the vestal virgins are acting of their own accord. In fact, if the Caesar knew he'd be furious."

"So they are trying to... rid me from the throne?"

"Precisely. Since they're all... vestally and stuff, I'd assume that they naturally joined forces with another race, that fell to Earth what... forty? Fifty years ago? They've been planning this a long time. Probably the Terravile promised not to hurt _their_ crops, and told them they had power to take down Egypt. They used the vestal virgins, but that's not half of it. How were they going to rid you of the throne, you ask? Ah, it's quite easy actually. People of Egypt are _so_ superstitious. Their crops turning to ash, people disappearing, starting _right_ when you came to power? They're trying to take over Egypt using the weak links."

"But why would they do that, especially without the Caesar's permission?" Cleopatra says. Her eyes wide with horror.

"They got off on the wrong foot with the Caesar." You note. "Isn't that right?"

She nods, hesitantly.

"How could you _possibly_ know any of that?" Aaheru sucks in a breath.

"Oh," You say, clapping your hands together, "Oh, goodie. That reminds me. Here. C'mere, you. Aardvark."

"Aaheru."

"Whatever." You gesture to him. "You're arrested."

_"What?"_ He shoots to his feet, furious. "Under what charges?"

"Attempting to poison the Pharaoh. And aiding in a mutiny." You nod to Rory. "Tie him up, feed him to the birds, whatever you Ancient Egyptians do. Hurry, before he escapes."

Rory steps forwards and grabs his arm; but shaking him off, Aaheru steps towards you threateningly. "I don't know how you found out, or how you knew all of this, but may the gods _curse you._ " He hisses, and draws his sword. Really? Does he _have_ to make a brave last stand?

Rolling your eyes, you dodge his hasty swing and press your thumb against his forehead, delving into his psychic mind- _sleep._

He slumps over.

"Sedative." You explain. "Rory, tie him up with this. Wait a minute." You turn to the girl; "What's your name?"

"Arya."

"Arya. Strange name." You say, and place your hand on her forehead. All the names, the memories, the places flood into your brain and you step back, calmly.

"Rory. Gather the troops, find the impostors. Seven of them, all scattered across the city." You list off the names. "Go. Your majesty, it's not safe here. In exactly four minutes and twenty-two-" You glance at the fob watch- "Seventeen, all the crops in Egypt will be sucked into a main control force and undercover so-called 'prophets' will start to blame you on everything. Now, your majesty, if you will head to safety-"

"How will you stop it?"

"Central power is the obelisk." You point towards the structure- almost finished, lacking some final touches. "I'll resonate an ultrasonic boom throughout the whole place. All the Terraviles will die."

"Then I will accompany you." She decides.

* * *

"Are you sure this is all you wish for in return?" Cleopatra says, her brows furrowed. You give her a slight nod and inch slightly to the left, the sharp tool in your hand digging into the rock.

"I came to give a message, originally. I don't want anything else." You respond, and draw a curve; the architect, behind the two of you, watches in wonder as you carve. "I'll send a psychic message. Hopefully it'll reach him in time."

You carve off the finishing touches. "Paint." You say, holding out a hand, and the bowl is stuffed into your hand; you reach up and draw a perfect circle.

"I'll make do with that." You decide, stepping back to admire your artwork. "I'll make do."

Cleopatra comes to step besides you, her fingers grazing the words. "What does it say?"

You open your mouth.

"It says-"

* * *

"What does it say on the psychic paper, then?" Martha prods. "Go on."

"Brooklyn Museum, Egyptian Gallery." He says, and looks up. In front of them is a huge obelisk, and upon that obelisk, right there in the corner, where you can't see if you don't concentrate, are three words. Three words, and a number. Written in perfect Gallifreyan, the circles seem to wind around him, tightening, so that he can't _breathe._

_1989\. I'll be there._

"I'll be there too." He breathes, more to himself, and his coat tails flying behind him, he flies into the TARDIS.


	12. Coming

You wake up in handcuffs. Oh, what a new experience.

Your mouth is groggy and your neck is slightly stiff, but you can manage to shake yourself awake, to survey your surroundings. The vortex sickness has gotten a tiny bit better since the last time traveling; not by much, though. You peel your eyes open and with blurry eyes take everything into note- you're in a cell, a prison, dark and dank. Through the tiny window you can see movement: you're not sure what it is but it's fast.

But the question is, how did you end up here in the first place? You couldn't have just vortex shifted straight into a pair of manacles now, could you?

You shift, trying to adjust the grip your bonds have on you, and frown as they rattle. They're nailed to the ceiling rather tightly, making it hard for you to get out. Your arms, also, are losing blood and you don't like it.

Where even _is_ this place, anyway?

You're just about to shout _hello?_ in English when somebody shifts in front of you; human, lightweight, soldier. Carrying a weapon, gun most likely based on the sounds you can hear.

"Hello, American." The soldier says.

Tilting your head, you respond in perfect German, "I'm not American."

He pauses. Frowns.

"What?" He says, looking confused. Oh, you don't blame that poor bloke. If you were in his position, you would be confused, too. A British lady speaking perfect German while saying that she's not American.

"I said," You repeat, slowly as if talking to a toddler, "I'm not American. Where am I?"

_"What?"_

You roll your eyes. "Who are you? What year is this? Let's start with that. What year is this?"

He leers at you for a moment; "Are you stupid? It's-"

You give him a wide grin and a reply; "Yup!"

"-1989."

_Wait- what?_

Your heart skips a beat. _Really?_

_Seriously!?_

"Are you sure?" You surge forwards before remembering that you're clad in chains- can't give away your trick yet. "Seriously? 1989?"

He gives you a weird look but nods.

_Yes!_

_YES!_ 1989, Germany! You've _made it!_

"Date?"

"Why would I-" He tries for a sneer and you reach up and wrap the chain links around your hands, using momentum to swing yourself forwards and wrap your legs around the soldier's neck. With a grunt, you knee him and he falls to the floor, pained. _Perfect._

"Date?" You ask, again.

"November 9th." He responds, coughing, choking.

_Seriously?_

After seven tries and a run-in with Torchwood- you _finally made it!_ If it was up to you, you'd fall to the floor and dramatically cry; since it's not, you just scream on the inside while you happily try not to die from happiness. _Maybe today you'll be able to- Maybe you could-_

But for god's sake, _breathe,_ (Y/N). Anything could happen. Maybe the Gallifreyan whom you'd been told about is not the Gallifreyan you think you know. _Breathe._ "Thanks. Now why am I here?"

"You were passed out on a road." The soldier says, recovering; "You appeared out of nowhere, looking like a Westerner. Why wouldn't I?"

"Western-" You run the date through your head. 1989, November 9th.... the day the Berlin Wall came down. And you're in Germany. Most famous thing that happened in the whole damn year.

He'll be able to find you- if you're right, he _will_ be able to. He will run, and he _will_ get you.

You need to believe that, you need to tell yourself that you know; you _need_ to-

"Hurry, Doctor." You whisper into thin air, hoping that this can reach him. "If you're here, Come and get me."

* * *

The Doctor runs, his coattails flying behind him.

Everything is reduced to white noise around him, and he can see angry spots flying in his vision, but he has no time to mind that- his attention is concentrated on the obelisk and the obelisk only.

How had he _not_ noticed? How had he not?

Everything seems like a clue, especially as he's in a _museum,_ full of old artifacts. The stained glass windows, every lady seems like _his_ lady, every ancient message seems like one carved by her hands, every pottery caressed by her hands.

He'd parked his TARDIS in the art section. Martha rushes behind him, asking _what's wrong and what's the matter,_ but nothing gets into his ears. Nothing does, except for those words- 1989-

Where in 1989? He rifles through the major historic events of that particular year. Why would she choose that year? The correct answer is probably not _the year Daniel Radcliffe and Taylor Swift were born_ or _the year the first Batman movies came out,_ which is totally off the point, but what _is_ it?!

He pauses, his running steps slowing into steady walking as he enters the art gallery. He's getting ahead of himself. All he has are stories, from a guy who tried to trick them, and the words of a very violent Torchwood; how does he know it's his lady, the one he's given up hope on- how does he know it's (Y/N)? It could be any old Gallifreyan. It could be any of them, from back home.

But goddamn it- he has to _try._

"Martha." He says. When she fails to respond, he breaks off into a yell; "Martha! I'm taking you back home!"

"Yeah, yeah, that's alright, but..." She points. "That looks beautiful."

He has no time to look at _artwork!_ He can go back to the time it was created and look at it then, why a grungy old museum? "Not now, Martha, I'm busy-"

"That." She insists. "Doctor, _look._ "

"I need to go." He says, and grabs her arm; but unwillingly, his eyes travel down her arm, towards where she is pointing;

At the landscape painting, a huge canvas filled with the beauty of an unmistakable planet. People are taking photos of it, _oohing_ and _aahing,_ but he feels an urge to scream; _it's OUR planet! Don't you dare-_

He steps closer, instead. Entranced.

"Isn't that the planet you spoke about?" Martha asks, and he nods; but his eyes are fixed on the landscape, unable to say anything, like he's locked into the painting. It's drawing him nearer- he can't-

And then he sees it. The final clue.

There is the crowd, different assortments of people from different planets, and then there is the lone figure on the balcony. He can see the similarities, and he can see his old face in the painting. The last face that she'd ever known before they'd been torn apart.

_You don't deserve this,_ his inner conscious says, but he resists. He resists harder than he ever resisted before because it's _her, because there's that slightest chance and he can't miss it-_

"Martha." He says. "I'm dropping you off home and then leaving."

"When will you be back?" She says, and she's following him into the TARDIS, the TARDIS where she used to laugh with him and chase him and kiss him and-

"As soon as I find her." He murmurs. Almost as if he is in a trance, he takes his psychic card out; sure enough, the same words are there.

_I'll be there._

* * *

You rub your slightly sore wrists with your hands as you step over the body. There'd been quite enough of the dangling; your wrists had been starting to hurt and you hadn't felt like playing along anymore since he handed over all the information.

Oh, and speaking of dangling- thank god fingerless gloves were invented; they are _much_ better when trying not to get blisters on your hands.

"Finally." You grumble. "You talk an awful lot for a soldier."

You rotate your stiff neck a few times and take a good look around while you're working on the door lock. A dank prison; government-issued official prison, no doubt, for... what, political prisoners? You're not quite sure but the fact that they locked you up because you're a Westerner is quite enough for you.

But that's not the only thing that bothers you, no; the thing that bothers you the most is that you finally land yourself in the right century, the right country, and where does it end up being? The other side, of a huge wall!

Ugh. Good news is the wall's coming down; but you're not much of a patient person and you don't like to be kept waiting. Pushing open the door, you make your way down the filthy corridor. The others watch you with interested eyes.

There are a few guards, but you take them down with ease; a few distractions and well-placed taps do it just fine. You instead focus on the matter at hand, the matter that worries you the most- _where exactly?_

You've told him the year, yes, but there's no reason to see why or how he'd get the message. He could turn up to the establishment of the World Wide Web for god's sake- yes, the Doctor is that kind of man- and there's also nothing that says he's going to be in _East_ Berlin, which is where you are. He could be over the wall, and you would have to wait a whole hour or so; you've landed in about an hour.

The bad thing is that since you're a 'Westerner', you'll have to hide around, try not to get arrested again- and an hour with nowhere to go? Not very appealing.

You can spot the exit a few meters away, but what will you do once you step out of there? Run for your life? You _are_ a fugitive, in this country. It's for certain that getting caught as an escapee from jail, especially looking like what you look like now, is certain death penalty.

But you can't be scared of one stupid death penalty. You've dealt with so much to get here; ghosts that ended up being Cybermen, massive rock monsters, deadly shadows... this is _nothing._

You run your fingers over the handle, and without so much as a second thought wrench the door open. You'll search the place to hell and back if it means finding him.

_I'm coming,_ you think. _I'm coming._

* * *

The Doctor's fingers fly over the panel. His eyes are wide, fixated on the monitor as the TARDIS shudders, and finally lands.

_Pictures taken in the day the Berlin Wall collapsed._ There are more than just a few files and he gives them a rifle-through before his ship fully materializes on Martha Jones' front lawn. Maybe he's a Time Lord and has all the time in the world, but he wants to check if he's right- if the things he's been seeing is not just hysteria but really, actually, _true._

"Off you pop, then, Martha." He says, with a cheery tone, and rushes over to the doors, throwing them open. "I'll pick you up nice and early tomorrow morning, I won't take long."

"Why-" She seems baffled. "What- where are you going?"

"A quick trip to Germany." He says, waving her off. "Personal matters."

"You have personal matters?"

He gives her a slightly more-than-offended look at her strange expression. "Of course I do. Now off you go."

She steps out with a slightly strange look on her face and he closes the door behind her, instantly rushing towards the controls. _Berlin... 1989..._ _November 9th..._

She has to be there. She _has_ to.

The TARDIS seems to shake more than usual- or maybe that's just him. As his ship begins to move he clutches onto the edge and flips through the picture, desperately looking for any sign of the girl from Gallifrey- even if she's regenerated, if she looks different, he swears he could spot her from a crowd.

And- _there it is._

In a black-and-white picture, slightly shuddering from the motion of the TARDIS, are people, crowding through the gates of a checkpoint. The first checkpoint, and in the middle- a girl. He wouldn't notice her if he wasn't looking for her, but he does now, and he knows for sure it's her. That excited sparkle in her eyes, he's seen it more than just a few times; it's her.

_It's her._ He can feel tears prickling at his eyes; leaning his face down, he buries his face in his hands and tries to hold back a flurry of tears.

_He's not alone. She's there._

_She's ALIVE._

His fingertips graze the picture that's only a hologram, the picture of her face, and he thinks the same thing she does.

_I'm coming._ They think. _I'm coming for you._


	13. Hide-and-Seek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cliffhanger ;p

You've been searching for a near hour now.

They weren't lying when they said he was impossible to find. A near hour in this goddamned city and _where is he?_

The most obvious sign is the blue police box (you've told him to fix that chameleon circuit a billion times but he never listens) yet there's no sign of it, anywhere in the city. You think maybe the TARDIS is not with him right now, and you go around, trying to find anyone that looks like him, or at least has a similar feel. You'd know when you see him, you'd just _know._

But he's not anywhere, and you're starting to lose hope as the sun dips lower and lower down the horizon.

He promised... he promised...

_"I'll never leave you, (Y/N) (L/N)." He says, and his mouth is curved up in that mischievous grin of his. "I swear I won't."_

He _promised._

He always keeps his promises. He's never broken one with you so far and you have to tell yourself that he won't break this one, the most important one, because he's the Doctor- because that's what he does.

You can feel your heart sinking as though a lead weight has been attached to it. You took nearly a dozen trips, all around the world, seeking, finding, waiting- and he's just simply not _here._

Have all your theories been misproved? Is the Gallifreyan the Slitheen had talked about not _your_ Gallifreyan? Maybe it's not even true. Maybe he's not a Time Lord, just traveling under the guise of one.

But what about the stories? No normal person can do all that, saving the world from the Cybermen, from the Daleks, from every and any threat thought possible. You know the Doctor is one of the only ones who can do it, apart from you and the others who are all _dead now_. The Doctor is alive, saving people like the two of you used to do together from so long ago, and he's carrying on the work because he's just that kind of man. He's the kind of man you fell in love with.

If he's not who you thought he was, then what are those tales?

You're so _confused._ You dart into an alleyway, tiredly, as a small group of soldiers walk past; changing shifts, no doubt. This is getting too tiring- hiding from soldiers, searching left and right, going around the same place _over and over and over-_

You want to sleep. You're so tired, you just want a bit of rest- both emotionally and physically, you're nearly destroyed. You want to just lie down and have a good sleep, which is nearly at the edge of insanity for you because you _never_ sleep. The nightmares haunt you too much, but if you're willing to go through a bit of nightmares because you're _tired,_ then god knows how much you are. Tired, and losing hope.

The only thing leaving you clinging for hope is that maybe, just maybe, he's on the other side of that wall. Maybe he's in West Berlin, looking for you the same way you're looking for him. You can't eliminate the possibility that he'll be there. You'll just need to wait until the wall comes down- which is, if your history is correct, in three and a half hours.

Three and a half hours and you can see him again. He'd promised.

_Just wait,_ you convince yourself, and close your eyes, sliding down to sit on the floor. Unconsciously, your fingers come to close around the pendant around your neck, the pendant with the ring, _your_ ring, your engagement ring. The only part of him you have left to hold on to, and a sonic screwdriver that used to belong to him. _Just wait and he'll be there._

_He promised._

* * *

The Doctor steps out of his TARDIS and, ironically, checks the time.

Exactly nine PM. He's on time, then. One and a half hours early, if he's correct.

He runs his fingers through his spiky hair and surveys his surroundings, now that he's sure he has enough time. The sky is dark and the sun almost gone; he can see the moon and the stars beginning to come out. A perfect night, really, especially since what's supposed to happen soon.

To some extent, it's rather obvious that he's landed himself in West Berlin. It's much more technologically advanced and he can see a little over the wall, at the paved roads and the weary soldiers guarding it- the question is not whether he's in West Berlin or East or anything.

The question is; where is _she?_

His footsteps are hard, desperate, as he holds the printed picture in his hand (courtesy of Martha Jones) and looks for anyone who looks like her. White shirt, black slacks, trench coat, fingerless gloves, dark hair with bright green eyes.

_Green eyes- dark hair-_

Where _is_ she?

He seems to run for nearly half an hour, adrenaline pumping through his body as he thinks of nothing but her, her, _her._ She's got to be here somewhere; she was the one who had given the date. And he's sure it's her.

Where- where- _where-_

He runs so much, so fast, that he can feel the rubber soles of his converse grow older and older before his very eyes- but he doesn't _care about some stupid shoe!_

_He cares about her._

But she's not here. He can feel himself start to panic, the most emotion that's gripped him ever since the end of the planet, even more so than Rose, even more so than _anything else._ She's got to be here, but she's not, and he realizes what he's feeling-

"I'm scared." He says. Nothing but thin air in front of him, he must look like a madman, but he begs that (Y/N) will be there- be _anywhere-_

"I'm-"

* * *

_"-scared, (Y/N)." A voice whispers. "I'm so scared."_

_"What?" You can't help but cry, "Why?"_

_"You promised you'd be there." The voice sobs, "You aren't. Come get me."_

_"But- how-" You can't talk. What? What's happening?_

_The blackness comes to light. The sky is dark- indicating the time to be around ten. The surroundings are new, a bit more modern, with roads, cars, no soldiers._

_And in the midst, a man. Seemingly about a few years older than you. He feels familiar, but you cannot quite place him; a slim man with spiky brown hair, sideburns, and dark brown eyes. He wears a suit, and with the suit a trench coat; lighter than yours both in color and weight. His hands are stuffed into his pockets and he seems to look straight at you with eyes that look... old._

_"(Y/N)." His mouth forms the word._

You shoot up, taking deep, heavy breaths as you try to wake yourself. Your neck is stiff from being lolled to the left, and there is a small trail of drool leading down your mouth which you wipe away with a slight flush.

What just happened?

Did you sleep? Dream? You're not sure that's even possible anymore, you sleeping like this; it's the best nap you've had in... oh, a week and a half? It seems so long you slept, yet the sun is not even up yet.

And the most miraculous thing is that it wasn't a nightmare you had. It was a dream, which you vaguely remember. A dream, which seemed so _real._ A... man?

You remember his spiky hair, and he knew your name... he said he was... scared...? He was so familiar... but the first question that pops into your mind isn't where you saw him before, no; you know you haven't _seen_ him before.

You just _know_ him.

But where? Where- where _where-_

And more importantly, _who?_

"Hurry!" Your train of thought is broken by a voice, the pattering of footsteps. Not to mention something else- something you hadn't noticed due to your groggy state. Chanting, crying, yelling. You pull yourself up and head, as silently as you can, towards all the commotion, trying desperately to hear what they're saying.

_"Open the gates!"_

_What!?_

You realize you've been so preoccupied with everything, the dream and your thoughts, that you've completely forgotten about your original mission- that the Doctor is here, and that you have to find him.

What time is it? Your hand automatically heads to your coat pocket, checking the fob watch; 10:40 P.M.

_So close-_ Five minutes and the wall will break down! You can feel excitement seizing you, but more than that, desperation; you _need_ to go as quickly as you can. You _need_ to know.

On the other side, he'll be there. You know he will, because he promised.

And you- ironically, a Time Lord- you can see him. In five minutes. After _so long-_

Enough with the imagination, though; you need to get there first.

You'd spotted the Bornholmer Straße border crossing from when you'd been looking for the Doctor under the thought that he'd be in East Berlin, and you know you're near it now; the chanting of the crowd proves more than substantial evidence. Not only it's the East Berliners, people on the West are doing the same thing. Yelling, cheering, telling them to _open the fucking wall._

Now that you're near the edge of the crowd, however, sweat forms on your palms, your mouth feels parched, and you feel as though you can't move anymore. Two and the wall will open. Two more minutes and you will see the Doctor.

_I'm coming-_ You desperately think. _I'm coming for you!_

Your heartbeat thrums in your ears and you can feel blood rushing through you. One and a half minutes-

_"Let us through! Open the gates!"_

One minute, fifteen seconds;

_"We're free!"_

You feel weightless, as if your feet are no longer touching the pavement, and you can only hope. He'll be there- waiting- and you'll wait too, as long as he'll come-

_Fifty seconds._

The soldiers are glancing at each other nervously, making movements as if to let them through. You tiptoe and can catch a peek of the other side, the crowds gathered on the other side too-

_Thirty._

You push past the crowds and burrow your way into the middle, and then much more slowly, into the front.

_Fifteen._

After fifty years- you can see him, again-

_Seven._

And then- you can see it. Your breath stops in your throat. The blue police box, parked right in view if you know what you're looking for, if you tiptoe just a bit.

_Five... four... three... two... one..._

The gates open.

People rush through and you are swept up, heading towards West Berlin; you can feel yourself cross the gates, and then you're walking, one step towards a time, towards the blue police box. You can't believe it's _there,_ but it is.

As if just in time, the door swings open and a man steps through- the man you'd seen in your dream, with his spiky hair and his brown eyes and-

_It's him._


	14. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's not finished yet so don't worry peeps

_It's him._

You take steps towards him. Little steps, because if you don't you'd fall over. You can't believe, after so long, after _fifty years,_ he's here. Finally, in front of you, within reach.

He's _here!_

One step... another... a third... and his eyes wander to you, spotting you, locking with yours. His eyes lock onto yours and like a lie, both of you are running. Running towards each other, running towards your other half, running towards the hope they thought they lost. Three steps- two- one- the distance is shortening, with every step.

You reach the final step, and his body collides with yours.

It's the same from all those years ago, not the same body but the same sensation and the same mind. He's hugging you, and you _still_ can't believe it but his arms are wrapped around you, one hand gripping your waist like all those years ago and the other on the small of your back, pulling you in, pulling you flush against him, and you bury your face into the crook of his neck with your arms around his neck and you _cry._

Tears leak from your eyes and you pull him closer, as close as humanly possible, your face against his shoulder. He smells like a bit of cologne and it's the same scent from before, so you can't help but breathe it in and cry even more. His hands are around you and you can feel him, his mouth kissing the top of your head, caressing you as if you're the most precious thing in the world.

"(Y/N)." He whispers, his lips breathing the word like something forbidden, something _his._

"Doctor." You respond, and pull away from him, your eyes coming to examine him; _"Oh, Doctor."_

He wraps his arm around you, again, and you know he's not one to cry but you can't help but hear a sob escape from his mouth- your hand drops lower down and you rub his back soothingly, and for the first time in what seems like nearly six hundred years, he cries. His fingers run through your hair as he desperately attempts to calm himself, to keep his calm demeanor, but his ragged sobs and erratic breathing gives it away.

It breaks your heart.

You run your fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck and whispers, "Don't cry, Doctor."

"I'm sorry." He murmurs, and the way he says it, you know that it's not only once or twice he says this. "I'm so, _so sorry._ "

You wipe away your own tears with your sleeve. This is unfamiliar enough, the notion that the Doctor is crying in front of you for the first time in so long, but he's blaming _himself?_ "It's not your fault, _amore mio._ You kept your promise."

There is a pause. You suspect him trying to find something to tease you about.

"I did." He says, detaching himself from you with a grin, and you can see the start of something- flirting? teasing?- coming up. He's the Doctor, of course he would. "So, how about you catch me up on what went on?"

He holds out his hand and wriggles his fingers, gives you a wide grin; _childlike._ Another word to describe this new Doctor- and you have to say, you like it.

You grin and take his hand, his fingers lacing between yours, and the two of you begin walking towards the TARDIS. "Met some new friends. And old ones, too. Remember Sarah Jane?"

"Oh! Sarah Jane!" The Doctor laughs. "Ah, I could never forget. Did you meet her?"

You squeeze his hand excitedly. "You'd _never_ believe how cute she was when she was six."

"Oh, you're kidding." He shakes his head. "Did she invite you in?"

"Tea and biscuits." You say, a sparkle in your eyes as the wind teases your hair. "Yum."

"That's more like it. Speaking of tea and biscuits, how'd you like to have some at the Boston tea party?"

You snort. "You realize that's not an actual tea party?"

He raises both eyebrows at you. "Oh, was it not? I never noticed." His tone is drenched in sarcasm and you can't help but laugh at his mockingly surprised expression.

"You _are_ rude." You note.

"Oh." Frowning. "Sorry."

"Never said it was a bad thing." You tease, and he shakes his head, chuckling.

The two of you stop your journey in front of the TARDIS and your smile seems to fade at the image of the blue box; reaching up, you trace the polished, painted wood with your free hand.

"Long time no see, old friend." You say, patting the door; you make a move to step aside for him when he throws you something. You catch it with both hands and open your palms; to see a key, small and golden.

"Thought you might need it." He nods towards it and you run your thumb over the surface of the key- this is all so sudden that you have no idea whether this is even _real._ "I mean, if you want it."

"Are you _kidding?_ Of course I want it!" You tiptoe up and kiss his cheek. "Now about that door..."

You reach forwards and place the key in the lock, turning it. The door creaks open; you are just about to push it open further when the Doctor yells, "Stop!"

You spin around and automatically whip out your sonic screwdriver; but there is nothing, nothing but celebrating people and the Doctor looking slightly confused.

"I was going to ask you something..." He puts his hand on his chin and seems to have a sort of _eureka_ moment. You roll your eyes; for a moment you thought it was something serious... something bad... you're lost in thought, just a little bit, when he looks up, a grin on his face and eyes wide.

"Oh, right!" He exclaims. "What'd you think?"

"About what?"

"The new form." He spreads his arms. "Not ginger, unfortunately, but it's good enough. I'm rude, too."

You put a finger on your chin. "I'm not quite sure." You comment. "You're a bit scrawny. But then again I've only seen the face."

"And?"

You tilt your head; and then, almost instinctively, you reach forwards and grab a fistful of his jacket, pulling him down into a kiss.

After a moment, you pull away and watch him with amused eyes. Almost like a mutual agreement, the Doctor steps closer to you and wraps an arm around your waist, his mouth meeting yours again.

This time it's much less hasty; you tiptoe up, just a little, to reach him better, and your arms wrap around his neck to pull him in deeper. His mouth is much more aggressive but you can _feel the emotion behind it-_ that you're finally together, once again, and that _he'll never leave you ever._

An unspoken promise.

Your back hits the doors of the spaceship and you pull away, panting.

"So?" He asks, again.

"I like the mouth." You say, and turn away, pushing the doors of the TARDIS open.


	15. Joy

_Where am I?_

_Have I crash-landed myself in the Sahara again? I_ hate _vortex manipulators._

_I wish I had the TARDIS._

_Why does it feel so soft?_

A flurry of thoughts shoot through your head as you lick your parched lips groggily and sit up, opening your eyes.

As always you start by scanning your surroundings. You seem to be in a bedroom of sorts, clothes and random tools strewn everywhere. Curiously enough, you're not on the floor or chained to a pipe; instead, you find yourself lying in the midst of all that, in a bed; and a very comfortable one, too.

This is weird; you've never woken up in a bedroom before. Handcuffs, dungeons, alien bars, and planets made of gas? Certainly. But bedrooms? Never.

The whole place seems somewhat familiar to you. You try to remember just how you landed here in the first place- funny, your vortex manipulator doesn't seem to be broken like any other times... except you didn't _use_ your vortex manipulator.

The events rush back to you.

Oh! _Oh!_

Your eyes are wide as you remember the set of events from yesterday. You'd been to the Berlin Wall... looked for the Doctor... found him... kissed a few times... caught up... and then you'd passed out from the exhaustion (and must you say, _nothing_ else happened). You'd _found the Doctor._

Is it weird you still think it's a dream?

You bury your face in your hands, unable to stop the grin from spreading across your face. After _fifty years of nothing,_ and seven years of searching, you've found him. Finally.

God... you run your fingers through your hair and laugh out loud, happy, actually _hopeful_ for the first time in so long. You're not alone. You're not alone in this world, not the last of your race, not the only one.

You swing your legs over the side, stepping over the identical sets of clothing (how many does he _have?_ ) and determine that maybe you do need to change your white shirt, which has obviously become more than just a little filthy from that roll in the pavement yesterday.

This is so unfamiliar, though; it's been _ages_ since you've cared about someone enough to want yourself to look good. There's a shower beyond the small door, for some reason, and you take a good long shower before cleaning yourself up as best as you can. In front of the mirror you adjust your hair- do you look better with hair down the front, let loose, or pulled back?- and brush your teeth, checking for bad breath.

You come out of the bathroom and spend about five minutes determining whether shirt A or shirt B is smaller before deciding that they are the same size, and set the cleaner one on the bed, unbuttoning your blouse.

You can't do anything about the trousers, so you just decide to leave it and have just set your old blouse on the floor when the door bursts open and the Doctor says, "Are you up yet?"

Instantly, your eyes widen and you feel heat rushing up to your face as you snatch up your new shirt and slip it on, wrapping the sides of it around you- _"Personal space,_ Doctor!"

He blinks. "Oh." He says, and he's frowning but there's a slight wince as he looks away. "Sorry..."

You turn away from him and start buttoning the shirt up. It's a bit big but you manage by rolling up the sleeves and tucking the edges into your slacks. "And as for your question," You say, laughing, "Yes, I'm up."

"Well." He comments, watching you as you do up your buttons, "It's not like I _haven't_ seen you-"

"Oh, don't go there." You finish rolling your sleeves up to your elbows and give him a punch on the shoulder. "You haven't seen _this_ body yet so it doesn't count."

"You're a bit... red." He comments, but when you whip towards him there is a slight smirk on his face. "Around here... and there..." His finger points around your face and you smack it away, wrapping your arms around yourself slightly embarrassed.

"Shut it, ginger." You flush, using the nickname you'd give him over six hundred years ago, and try to be less red. Unfortunately, that fails. He laughs- that kind of triumphant _ha-ha_ and leans down to drop a kiss on your mouth.

"Ginger. Hmm. I like that." He contemplates his hair. "Now, what was I going to- oh, that's right! I have a companion that I want to introduce to you, but that can be done later- oh yes, that was the question. Where do you want to go?"

_What?_ Did he just say-

"You have a _companion_?"

"Well, yes, I just take her around on trips, but-"

"You have... a _companion._ "

"I mean, well," He hesitates. "Yes, I let her go where she wants to, but-"

"I've been traveling with a vortex manipulator for _fifty-seven years._ " You scowl, "And you have a _companion?_ "

"Well, yes, but-"

You put a finger on his lips, contemplate the notion. You, the Doctor, and whatever companion he has.

"All right." You decide. "You better introduce me to her someday, right?"

"I was planning to." He agrees, and reaches forwards to take your hand; the two of you head towards the main control room of the TARDIS. "Martha Jones. She's a doctor."

"Like you." You tease, but there is a lying undertone to your voice; a slight edge. "Perfect, isn't it?"

"Not as perfect as you and me." He squeezes your hand as the two of you enter the control room. "We were made for each other! Allons-y!"

You laugh.

"Allons-y. I like it." He hums, and turns to the TARDIS dashboard. "Now where should we go?" The Doctor begins to adjust the console screen and flip levers; the sight is so heartbreakingly familiar- you can't help it as tears threaten to leak out of your eyes. _Still_ not able to believe the sight in front of you.

"Well." You say, hand propping up your chin as if to think, "I've always wanted to go to a theme park."

"Oh, good old theme parks." He says, and touches a few things on the console. "Where should we go? Hedgewick's World of Wonders? Waterpark in a planet of water? Disneyland?"

_What_ land now? You know he's more experienced in these kinds of things than you are, but really, this is quite ridiculous. "What's Disneyland?" You ask, feeling slightly stupid for the first time in sixty years. Oh, the effect your dear fiance has on you.

"You don't know what Disneyland is?" He wrinkles his nose. "Oh, that's tragic."

"How would I know? I've been traveling around with a vortex manipulator that spits me out whenever and wherever in time and space!" You complain; oh, that reminds you. You unstrap the said device from your wrist and toss it to him. "I won't need that anymore."

"You've been traveling around with this?" He holds it up, watching it as it dangle. "How are you still _alive?_ "

"You're being rude again, darling." You tell him.

"Oh. Right." He looks slightly sheepish. "Sorry. Now-" Tossing the manipulator over his shoulder, he pops up and gives you a grin. "Disneyland?"

You nod, rushing over to the consoles, and begin aiding him; your fingers flip switches and pull levers and you're frankly a little astounded that after so long you still know how to fly one; but you can, and the sensation is _amazing._

"It's a date." You tell him. He gives you a smile; from all those years ago, _still_ so full of affection- and you reach up to press your lips against his, the kiss turning into more of a little makeout session.

"Of course." He says, pulling away rather awkwardly- _god,_ this new doctor is awkward as one can get- and the TARDIS begins to shudder. You fall back against the railing with a small squeak; you'd totally forgotten about this part. The spaceship wheezes for a good twenty seconds before the sound fades, and you find yourself lying on the ground with a small bump in your head from when you slammed into the railings.

"You all right?" The Doctor asks, as you sit up with a groan.

"Guess the TARDIS didn't like us doing that, did she?" You laugh, accepting his hand, and pull yourself up. "So... where is this?"

"California." He says, and runs over to the door; you follow him, your hand pulled by his, laughing like you've never laughed before, laughing that particular way only the Doctor can make you. "C'mon. Allons-y! Disneyland!" He picks up his coat and pulls it on, all the while talking. "You'll love it! Oh, 2018 Disneyland. It's excellent."

The Doctor throws open the door and you're met with the sight of Disneyland. You've never _been,_ and it's so... happy; the huge castle, the bustling people, the cheery music that's playing that should be childish but is strangely uplifting.

The two of you, fingers locked between each others', step into the sun and he closes the door with a squeak, watching your reaction. Your mouth opens, and closes, and you stare at the whole thing in wonder, thinking you _deserve_ this. Everyone does, a happy break once in a while.

And this is... so _happy,_ after everything you've been through. You turn and tilt your head up to peck his cheek.

"Where do you want to go first?." He asks, grinning down at your surprised expression, "There's a rollercoaster, a ferris wheel, a haunted house-"

Beginning to walk, you perk up at 'the haunted house', and a mischievous grin comes up to your mouth; tiptoeing up, you whisper in his ear, cupping your mouth with your free hand. "I bet you five bucks you can't go through that without screaming like a girl."

He makes an off-put expression. "I'm the Lord of Time, I don't bargain."

"Ten bucks and a kiss."

"It's a deal."

The two of you laugh, and hands intertwined, fall into step with each other like you'd never been apart. Happy.

Because you know what? Even aliens love Disneyland.

* * *

"You _so_ screamed."

"Me? Nah, never." He says, as the two of you walk towards the TARDIS.

Both of you are giddy from the _amazing_ day you've just had, both of you laughing from happiness and excitement and a hundred other things. You'd nearly spent a whole day in 'Disneyland'- the sun is dropping down the sky and the final visitors are reluctantly trailing out of the gates, moth of them somber at the fact that they have to leave already, but you're not. You're just happy.

"You did." You accuse. "I saw you. The Doctor, who's faced monsters and killer aliens, is scared of a _haunted house?"_ You tease as he denies it over and over again.

"Oh, shut up." He says, as nonchalantly as he can manage. You give him a mock offended look.

"Then what was that yelling when the ghost popped out?"

"I thought it was an angry Judoon! They're scary when they're angry-"

You laugh at the memory. "Why would you aim your sonic at him?"

"Instinct." He denies. "Can we not talk about this?"

You laugh at his slightly uncomfortable expression. "You're funny, Time Lord."

"Good. Funny is good. I've mostly figured myself out, but I've never heard funny... strange. I mean, of course I've heard that I'm strange, a lot actually. But if I've got to say, I'm rude and not ginger. How long do you think it'll be until I can become ginger?"

You laugh at his ranting as the two of you reach the doors of the TARDIS- he opens the door and you follow him as he runs in, striding around so confidently as if he rules the place- which, he does. "So where do you want to go next? _Ah,_ today was an awesome day. Another planet? Another time? Another world? I'm guessing you don't want to see the Sontarans? The Zocci, how about that? Or a hotel, I've heard that there's a suite to watch the brightest star in the universe."

"You talk too much." You laugh, but say, "How about the brightest star? Can we go see that?"

He gives you a wide grin. "I'm the Doctor, and you're my fiance. I can do whatever I want for you."

"So star?"

"Star." The Doctor agrees, and the two of you set off into the stars, once again.


	16. The Brightest Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> next chapter someone new will be put into the story  
> so watch out for it peeps

You are lulled awake, gently, by the steady humming of engines and a heavy breathing in your ear.

As you blink lazily, trying to ignore how good it would feel for you to just slide your eyes shut again, you notice several things; firstly, the blankets tangled around your legs, secondly, the fact that you've slept not just once but _three_ times, every month over the course of six. You know, ever since you've returned six months ago, that nightmares haunt you less, and although you still do dream, he will shake you awake and whisper comforts in your ear. Thirdly, you realize it's _the_ day- the day you've been counting down since a week ago.

Fourth, though, you can feel an arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to his chest, his mouth close to your ear, exhaling and inhaling steadily. The said _him,_ your fiance. The Doctor.

Slowly, you lean in and blow wind into his ear; he lets out a startled sound, and opens his eyes to look at you. "Allons-y, (Y/N) (L/N)." He says, rubbing his ear with a grin, and turns to stare at the ceiling. "Oh." He seems to remember something for a moment, and frowns.

"Hello." You greet sleepily, turning over to stare at the ceiling too. "What's with the face?"

"I had a dream that I was ginger!" He whines. "I've never been ginger before. I want to be ginger. Unfortunately I was a girl in the dream, but that's not the point. I was ginger." Turning to look at your face; "You would look good ginger."

"Well you can always dye your hair." You suggest.

He tilts his head and sucks in a breath; "Nah. It's weird, how humans put all these... _things_ into a bigger... thing."

You laugh and push his chest, sitting up; "OK, boomer."

"Okay _what?"_ His face scrunches up in that _what-the-hell_ kind of way.

"OK boomer. It's an Earth slang for- you know what, never mind." You give his confused face a glance and just let out a laugh, turning away; stepping over to the closet, you run your hands through the different clothes. After all, you're not like the Doctor- who has ten of the same outfits.

You choose a white embroidered dress with black sandal heels, picking them up with one hand (along with other... necessities), and turn back; "I'm going to change. You better take me somewhere interesting today, ginger." _It's a special day, you better take me._

"Oh, you just wait." He says, a large grin on his face. He begins to sit up and you turn back, shutting yourself into the bathroom; 

_What?_ So does he know or not? You feel slightly confused as you take a long shower, trying to figure out whether he's a) joking, b) genuinely unconcerned, c) the kind of man who forgets about important dates like these.

Who knows, maybe he's actually forgotten. It'd be fine. Really. Nothing the matter. You'd be happy enough. Which in universal language means, _no, he better not forget._

You finish rinsing the suds out of your hair and step out of the shower, a towel wrapped around you, when the whole place starts to shake; you step backwards and try to maintain balance, holding onto the sides of the sink as bottles rattle on the shelves around you, and scowl. He's traveling while you're trying to change? What kind of logic is that?!

The TARDIS stops moving and you change, dry your hair, style and coil it delicately into a chignon, putting on a little makeup. It's about fifteen minutes before you decide it's quite enough and step out of the room, navigating the complicated corridors to step through the end of the hallway leading to the main control room.

"I'm finished." You say, and tentatively wave a hand. "Hello,"

"Oh, hello. It took you quite a long time getting-" He turns, and his mouth stops, parting slightly; he stops from waving his sonic around in the air and stares, at your dress and at the fabric flowing just above your knees, at the sash of fabric tied around and accentuating your waist, at the hair curling around your face.

You grin at him.

"-dressed." He finishes, and pats down his coat. "Are we going somewhere special today?"

"You tell me." You ask, and your hopes fall just a tiny bit. Maybe he doesn't remember. Maybe he's been busy.

"In any case," He says, "(Y/N) (L/N), you look stunning."

You flush. "Thanks."

"We're already here." He says, and when you don't respond, gesture his head towards the doors. "C'mon then! Off we go." You follow him excitedly as he grabs his coat, still talking; "You'd love it. It's brilliant, really, how they've managed to build a suite so close to such light."

"Where are we?"

"Well, that would sort of spoil the surprise, wouldn't it?" He adjusts his trench coat and swings over to the door, turning to face you dramatically; you giggle as he places a hand on his mouth. "I give you..."

The Doctor pulls the door open.

"The brightest star in the world."

You gasp with wonder.

It's a beautiful place, the planet; you've landed yourselves in a place not so far from the suite itself. The grass seems more of a silver than an actual green, and so do the trees. There are gently sloping hills, and the ground seems to let out a gently glowing aura.

And then there is the sky. You haven't spotted the 'brightest' star yet, but the skies are so beautiful; it's bleeding orange-red, the hues blending together and creating a rust orange sky. There are no clouds, just a swirling imagery of colours.

Tilting your head, you look up towards the sky further when a set of glasses enter your vision and your world grows slightly darker, a set of hands grazing the sides of your face gently; you spin around to see the Doctor donning a set of sunglasses himself, or rather, turning his normal glasses darker with his sonic.

"It's beautiful." You say, breathlessly.

"It is." He agrees, and you make your way out of the TARDIS- locking it, he turns to you. "So how do you like it?"

You turn and look, at everything; the sky glowing with a healthy hue, the grass swaying gently in some invisible breeze. "I love it." You breathe. The old sentiment about him not remembering your birthday is gone now, and he's done so much for you that you'd feel guilty to bring it up; a grin on your face, you accept his outstretched hand and the two of you walk, hand in hand, towards the suite.

"So if I had to say something about that planet," He says, "Is that it glows. Astounding, isn't it? I suppose it's because it's near the brightest star in the world, but not too near that it'd get burnt up. A healthy amount of glowing. It's very healthy, too." The Doctor holds up his free hand and watches, turning it over; "Tickles. Hah. Anyways, so one of the most famous corporations in the world- which means, one of the most profiting- decided to build a palace here, to attract tourists. Stay a night, have a look at the star, have some fun."

"So are we going to?"

"Excuse me?"

You give him a mischievous grin. "Are we going to stay a night, look at the star, have some _fun?"_

He seems fully aware that you're flirting with him but otherwise incapable of doing anything; speechless and flustered, he manages to stammer out, "W- well, I mean... if you'd- but-" He stops. "I mean... we're here."

You laugh at his flustered expression as the two of you enter the glass doors and into the palace; he grins and winks at you as the two of you approach the front desk, flashing you his psychic paper.

"Right. Sorry. Hello!" The Doctor says, grinning. "I'm the Doctor and this is (Y/N). We've made reservations...?" With his other hand, he flips up the psychic paper and shows it to her. "A full tour _and_ reservations in the best suite, I believe."

You tilt your head and look at him, a small grin on your face- staying a night, then.

"Of course..." Her eyes scan over the 'credentials' and she seems to believe you; typing something on her computer, she slides over a set of room keys. "Just in time. The tour is in five minutes, after the tour you may go wherever you like." She peers at you from the top of her glasses. "Have a nice day, Doctor and Mrs. (L/N)."

"Of course, Doctor (L/N)." You tease him, taking off your sunglasses as soon as you turn around; he gives you a slightly flustered grin and does the same, tucking his glasses into his pocket and pulling you towards a group of people which you determine is the tour group.

"All right. Hello!" He waves his hand at whom you assume to be the tour guide (ooh, she's human) and watch as he gestures towards you wildly; "I'm the Doctor and this is (Y/N)." He shows her the psychic paper, squeezing your hand and throwing you a wink.

"Oh." The guide seems surprised, slightly. "We weren't expecting more company. All right- my name is-" She makes an indistinguishable sound; okay, not human- "But you can call me Laura. If everyone will follow me this way-"

The whole group- about five or six other people- set off and the two of you give each other identical grins before you rush towards the front of the group, catching up right behind 'Laura' as she explains everything that they know so far. He leans closer to you and asks, "How do you like it so far?"

"I dunno, I've only seen five minutes of it." You shrug. "How'd you get reservations? There's no way a psychic paper can imitate all that."

He laughs. "Oh, I have my ways. If I were you I'd be looking forward to this day even more." The Doctor gives you an utterly dorky grin and you stifle a laugh- "Well, consider me looking forward."

The tour is mostly showing around the whole place; lift rides (surprisingly, all of you _can_ fit in a single lift), showing the whole place and explaining its history, descriptions about the outside, and finally you're on highest floor. Laura is opening a door to reveal a staircase, which apparently leads to the roof/terrace.

"Well, it's rather good history." The Doctor tells you, "But nothing we don't know. Well, most things. Well, some things. Well, there _was_ a bit of new information." He admits. You give him a slightly strange look and mouth _quiet_ as Laura shoots him a look.

"So if you will all follow me to the terrace," She says, flawlessly, with a spotless grin, "Snacks and refreshments will be served as you enjoy the view."

"Ooh." You perk up; "I like snacks."

"Don't we all." He says, and frowns. "Oh, another thing I still haven't told you; I like apples now."

You make a face. "You used to hate them."

"Well, I like them now." He gives you a slightly disgusted look as he says, "But I still loathe pears."

Raising an eyebrow, you turn and ascend the final flights of stairs. "That's a rather strong word, don't you think?"

"Well, so is love." He points out. "Doesn't mean I ever stopped loving you."

Oh, god. Just like the Doctor to make such a stupid remark. "I can't believe you just compared our engagement to-"

The door flies open.

"-pears." You trail off, and you step into the terrace, entranced by what you're seeing; a beautiful sunset, but a sunrise at the same time. The sky is still orange, a darker one but an orange nevertheless. The breeze up here is slightly cool and soft, sliding over your neck and fluttering your dress, and you can feel the warmth of the sun against your face, illuminating it. "Wow."

"Aw, it's a beauty, isn't it?" He says, as the others disperses, and he leads you over to the edge of the terrace, staring. You reach for your glasses but he stops you. "It's all right. It's a safe distance. I just landed us on the other side of the planet."

"It took us five minutes to walk to the other side of this planet?"

"It's a small planet." He points out. You nod, and rest both elbows against the railings, watching the suns, and the Doctor does the same, his hands stuffed into his pockets, just watching.

The whole scene is oddly familiar. You've never been here before, but it brings some sort of calm with the familiarity; the double suns, how it's sunrise and sunset at the same time, the color of the sky, a rust brownish red-orange. The bubble of calm. You've never been here, but somewhere familiar... then it strikes you.

Oh.

"This looks like Gallifrey." You whisper, eyes fixated on the sun in the distance. Rising, falling, in the same sky at the same time. "Orange sky... two suns..."

The Doctor comes behind you, and you can feel tears shining in your eyes and blurring your vision as he wraps an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss against the top of your head; "I wanted to bring you somewhere at least near home for your birthday."

"You remembered." You say between shaky breaths, and can feel the tears beginning to escape, trekking down your face in a slick trail; "I thought... I thought you forgot."

"(Y/N) (L/N)." He says, shaking his head, "I'm never going to forget it, ever. Happy birthday."

The Doctor turns to you and wipes away your tears with a thumb; then leaning down, he kisses you.

You've kissed plenty of times over the course of six months, when you'd found each other. It'd ranged from quick pecks to rough makeout sessions but this is different, this is not one of those kisses they share for pleasure.

This is the emotion of a Time Lord, one who's lived nine hundred years and has finally found someone. His mouth fits to your perfectly, moving against yours in synchronization, and his hand is comforting on your face, pulling you closer and kissing you as though he can't bear to let you go again. You tilt your head to fit his lips better and wrap your arms around his neck, drinking in all of him, all of the Doctor that you've become familiar with again; the slight scent of cologne that contradicts his words about not caring, the way his mouth always tastes like something sweet no matter what, the clean-shaven angles of his jaw.

He'll never forget, and he'll always keep your promise.

You break away and then he wraps his arms around you, his hand rubbing circles into your back, and you can feel it, what these circles mean. Because they're not just meaningless circles, no; they're words. In Gallifreyan. The same words, over and _over and over_ again.

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

The words are simple but they have a bigger effect on you than you'd like; you wrap your arms tighter around him, only letting go when both of you have fallen silent.

"Was that my gift?" You ask, and he laughs. His hand is still on your waist, and he pulls away with an awkward flush; "I have a gift for you."

"I thought coming to the suite was the gift."

He looks up and gives you a mischievous grin; from within his pocket, he draws out a long box, like those people use to package pens. A... pen box. Or something.

"Here," The Doctor says, handing it to you, and you take it, admiring the sleek black box. "When did you have time to do this?"

"Oh, you know." He seems slightly uncomfortable in a way that suggests he does not want to be caught; "Stuff. Ways. Connections."

You look up to give him a pointed look; "All right, keep your secrets to yourself, John Doe." You tease when he refuses to give up, and excitedly, open the box to see...

A sonic screwdriver.

More so, not only any but _his_ sonic screwdriver. It's much newer and better fitted, more upgraded, then your old one, and a new color too- blue while your old one is red. You pick it out of the box and turn it over in your fingers, admiring the sleek texture, the metallic design and how more features are installed into it.

"Oh, my god." You spin it in your fingers and pick up a glass of champagne from a passing-by waiter; setting it on the terrace, you aim your new sonic at it. It shatters as soon as you press the button. "Oh, my god. You _beauty._ You are absolutely, impossibly, _stunning._ "

"Yeah, well... I thought I'd get you something big." He says, a little thoughtfully. "Big number. Seven hundred- that's a new digit, isn't it? You've lived seven centuries. Happy birthday on that."

You can't talk. You _cannot._ A former woman of science and technology, you can't help but love this more than any gift he could give you. The feeling of the sonic, running smoothly under your fingers, and the hum of it is more than enough to overwhelm you.

"This is the best gift _ever._ " You throw your arms around him. "Thank you! Thank you so much!"

"We were made for each other." The Doctor remarks, and you notice that when you pull away he's grinning at you, equally wide. "I like science, you like science..."

"And you, you dork," You say, tapping his chest, "Sound like Bill Nye."

"Ah, everyone knows he was based off me. They wrote a telly show about me!"

"I feel like we're getting off the point. Thank you, again, for the sonic; it's wonderful. It's beautiful."

"Nah, it was my pleasure." He flashes you a grin, that grin that never fails to make your heart beat no matter how long. "Happy birthday, (Y/N) (L/N). I love you."

"Love you too, ginger." You respond, and his hand in yours, the two of you watch the horizon that reminds you of home, and the two of you be together.


	17. Keeping You Safe

The morning is bright and early, the sun shining happily in the sky, and you curse thickly inside the floor of the TARDIS as you try to fix the problem.

"Tell me again." You say, and pull the welding goggles over your head to squint at your fiance; "What's wrong?"

"I thought it was time we go pick up Martha Jones." The Doctor says, frowning as he pushes buttons on the consoles. One of the metal grates on the floor has been removed, revealing a huge gap, and you've managed to get yourself down there in the mess of wires, to try to fix it- because of course, everyone knows you're the better technician. "It won't leave Barcelona."

"It won't take off?" Through your head, you mentally run through the lists of whatever could be wrong. "It just won't work? I mean... you can't travel _anywhere?"_

"I can get the time working." He clarifies, pushing a few buttons, and gives you a strange look; "The place won't work. We've been in Barcelona for twenty minutes now. Ranging from 1917 to 2034 to 1315."

"I'll try the dematerialization circuits." You tell him. "You use a Mark I model, am I right?"

"Right. Yes." He says, otherwise occupied with trying different switches, levers and buttons on the console, and you duck down. _Something_ has fizzed off, all right, you're just not sure what. A few charred marks, a bit of soot on the cables. Kneeling down, you reach towards the small dematerialization circuit and cup it in your hands, using your (and can you say, new!) sonic to give it a scan. There's nothing wrong with it.

Oh. You blink, a bit startled, but move onto the next solution. Pushing aside a few wires gently to make sure they're not hurt, you search for the relativity differentiator and find that you're right second guess; the differentiator has fizzed out and is sparking a little. You strip your goggles back onto your face and take it up, ignoring how it's burning your hands just a little. "Ginger! Over here!"

He ducks down and his face appears; "Oh! You found it!" He remarks, at the relativity differentiator now starting to blister your hands. "Oh. Are your hands all right?"

"Nah, they're fine." You say, and hold it up, scanning it with your sonic screwdriver. "It's just a bit damaged. I think it has something to do with the last trip we took."

"What, Barcelona?"

"No. The other one. You spilled a bit of tea on the controls, remember?"

"I did?" He pauses. "Of course I did. Can you fix it?"

You give him an annoyed look. "Oi, ginger, are you trying to insult me? Of course I can fix it."

"Ooh. Sorry." He winces. You stick out your tongue and he sticks it out back; turning back to the little device, you give it a few buzzes on your sonic and reach into the tool box you've brought, taking out the materials you need. Five of tinkering and it's as good as new.

The relativity differentiator is fixed and you give it a few pat-downs, pushing it back in place; dusting your soiled, raw and slightly burnt hands on your cargo pants, you yell up, "I fixed the relativity differentiator! Try it again!"

The Doctor must have operated the TARDIS again, because you feel the whole place shaking and grab onto one of the support modules as the structure wheezes; you hang on for dear life as you get slammed a little around (the TARDIS didn't do that intentionally, it's just that your dear fiance is such a bad pilot). Once the slamming around stops, though, you begin to crawl back to the gap when you spot something else; the Ionisation circuit is slightly dented and you spend a generous two minutes using the sonic and a bit of tools to fix it back into place.

"Doctor!" You yell as you crawl up, and pop your head up through the opened vents; there's a scream that startles you then, and you jerk backwards, banging your head against the grate cover leaning against the console. "Ow! Dammit!"

You turn to look at the Doctor, stacking your elbows up to the edge of the TARDIS floor; but he's too busy howling his face off, leaning against the console to break into a fit of hastily disguised laughter.

Raising your eyebrows at him, you give him a confused look; you're just about to lift yourself out of the inner workings of the TARDIS when a female voice says, "Hello."

You squint, looking for whoever's spoken, and find her; she's standing behind you so you lift yourself up and sit on the floor of the TARDIS, legs dangling off the edge.

"Hello! Who're you?" You ask, cheerfully- you really hope you're not rude right now- and strip your goggles onto your forehead, peering at her to give her a better look. "You're not a Time Lord, are you?"

She blinks, obviously taken aback, and says, "I'm Martha. Martha Jones."

The Doctor's eyes widen, you note in the corner of your eye, and he starts, "Don't-"

Oh, so _this_ is Martha. She's rather pretty, if you say so yourself. Lifting yourself off the floor, you lean down to replace the chunk of floor before stepping over it and introducing, "I'm Doctor (Y/N) (L/N). Sorry if I startled you, coming out of the ground and all that. I had to fix a relativity differentiator- that's why we're late, by the way."

She blinks, taken aback. "So you travel with him?" She asks, and you spot a curious something in her voice, something you quite can't make out.

"No." You laugh, shaking your head; _"He_ travels with _me._ "

"Oh, I like you."

"-fight." He finally finishes, with a bit of hesitation. "Oh, I'd rather you fight."

You pat his shoulder. "No you wouldn't, darling." Grinning. "I'm scary when I fight."

"Oh, remind me never to fight with you." He remarks. "So, Martha Jones... how long have we got?"

_What?_ "Until what?" You ask, confused.

The Doctor, astoundingly, waves you away; "Oh, just some... stuff. It's, uhm, you know..." Sucking in a breath and avoiding your gaze. You frown. "Stuff."

"We're going to see my sister." Martha tells you. "Evening reception. Formal dress. Apparently there's technology to live forever, we're going to check it out."

_What? WHAT?_ Eyes wide, you turn to see the Doctor. "You didn't tell me about this."

He makes a nonchalant face but is avoiding your gaze. Why? Why is he avoiding your gaze? Your brows furrowed, you turn to look at Martha, who seems quite lost in the midst of all that; "I'll just... uhm, get changed." She says awkwardly, and turns to hurry out o the TARDIS; the door clangs shut behind her and you cross your arms, stripping the welding goggles off your forehead and throwing them aside.

"What's she talking about?" You say, quietly. "Really, what?"

The Doctor seems to snap out of it, realizing probably that he can't avoid you forever; nonchalantly, he picks up a bundle of clothes from the side table and says, "I'm going to see this technology."

"I'm your technician. Why didn't you tell me? We have to get going, right? It's going to take me some time getting changed-"

He unbuttons his jacket and throws it aside, loosening his tie to unbutton his shirt. The Doctor seems intent on avoiding you- why? Why didn't he tell you? "You're not going." He says, quietly, as he pulls up his trousers, replacing the blue ones with the formal black.

What? Why? A hundred questions are threatening to spill out of you, and you have no idea why but- _"Why?"_

The Doctor seems the most serious you've ever seen him so far, since you've met him. He turns away from you and slings his tie off, throwing it to the side, and takes off his shirt, replacing it with a cream white one, tucking it in; refusing to respond.

He's never ignored you before. Ever.

Then why is he _doing_ this to you right now? What did you do?

"Why?" You ask, again. Calmly. There must be a reason. The Doctor always has a reason for everything, for anything. He can't be doing this because he _can,_ or anything like that. You're going to find out why, and you're going to talk him out of it, because to hell with _you can't come!_ You're (Y/N) (L/N), one of the top soldiers from the Last Great Time War, and you're not going to give up this easily.

He still doesn't respond. He buttons the shirt up fully and moves to take his bowtie on, pulling the strip of black fabric around his neck; "I can't."

"Can't what? Doctor, I _swear to you, tell me._ "

He shakes his head.

Why is he being like this? What's _wrong?_ In a state of anger, you grab the untied bowtie around his neck and push him, so that he hands on the chairs; _"Tell me,_ Doctor!"

"It's not safe." The Doctor finally says, and even though he seems not to care you know him. You know him and you can see the way his hands are tremor, ever so slightly, as he ties the bow in a perfect loop, and you can hear the underlying sadness in his voice. "I don't want to risk it."

"Risk it?" You say. The notion is so absurd that you can't help but look at him with amazement. "I'm coming with you, whether you like it or not." You turn to the door but he grabs your arm, preventing you from leaving; there's

"I don't _want_ to do this!" He shouts. "I don't want to! But every time we do this, what's going to happen? You're going to get hurt again, you're going to get into trouble and get injured and maimed and targeted like you do all the time, and I can't take it. I can't take the risk of _losing_ you, after being apart for so long, or worse..." He chokes.

The _Doctor_ chokes on his own words.

"Losing you." He says, quietly. "By my side, that's the most dangerous you'll ever get. You mean too much to me for me to let you stay like this."

"Mean too much to you?" You repeat, and turning away from him, let out a bitter laugh. "Fuck this. I've survived a _Time War,_ Doctor. I'm one of the last Time Lords in existence, and I'm definitely not safe, not even here, in the TARDIS, and not even on Earth. And you think because _you're_ my fiance, because _you're_ the almighty Doctor, you get to decide what happens to me, where I go? I'm about as safe as Martha is, you still let her go."

"Well _I don't love her like I love you!_ " He shouts back. "Do you have _any_ idea what I'm feeling right now!? How many people I've lost? You mean the _world to me!_ You have no idea what would happen if you died, or if you got hurt- I _can't!_ "

"Oh, so because I mean so much to you, you're arguing with me like this, right?" You argue back, and there is hurt written all across your features, your arms crossed defensively. "That gives you the right to make decisions for me, right? No, it doesn't, and if you think otherwise, then _fuck you._ "

The TARDIS is filled with stunned silence. Your last words ringing out. The Doctor watches you, brown eyes huge and horrified.

"(Y/N)-"

"Get out. Fine. I'm not going anywhere." When he doesn't move, you turn and grab his coat jacket, throwing it towards him. "You heard me. Get _out!_ "

He hesitates, but when you shoot him a look, turns and leaves without another word.

As soon as he does, though, your fists unclench and you turn from the door, shoulders slumped. You grab his duster coat and collapse on one of the couches in the TARDIS, hugging the coat close, breathing in its scent of adventure and the Doctor. Two things that are always together.

You're shocked, shocked that you'd fight like this. Though this reminds you that the Doctor isn't perfect. You can't expect him to understand everything, just because the two of you have a few things in common like being the last survivors of a race. 

But most of all, you're just... numb. You can't believe you'd fought with him, over something so little as whether you should go with him or not.

No, no. You can't think like that. He was unfair on you, and just because you're some kind of _couple reunited_ doesn't mean you should let him do anything and everything to you as you'd like.

You _can't._

As quick as you can, you make your way towards the wardrobe and pick out a navy blue evening dress: high-waisted, the lace sleeves reaching to your elbows, from the waist down a flowy material reaching down to your ankles- satin? silk? You don't quite know, but at least if you're going to go into a potentially dangerous position, you might just as well do it in style.

Reaching down, you bring out your combat boots- you might have to run, who knows?- and lace them up quickly, letting the fabric of the dress fall back down and brush your legs.

_Hurry, hurry, hurry._ It's a reception, you need to fit in; hastily, you put on a little bit of makeup before twisting your hair into a half-up half-down style before grabbing your sonic from the bedside table (never mind what that's doing there) and rushing out of the bedroom, towards the main control frame.

"Dammit." You swear, as you try to find a place to store your sonic. You have unfortunately realized that this dress, yes, does not have pockets.

Muttering profanities to whoever designed this dress, you grumble something obscene and stuff the sonic down your bra, hoping that it will not start resonating in there. It would be really, really, awkward.

No, really.

But anyways, back to the point; you stride towards the door and throw it open, rubbing your hands together.

"Let's get to work, shall we?" You say, and although you know the Doctor will be furious, you can't help but grin at the thrill- the thrill of the adventure.

And you begin to run.


	18. Lazarus

Oh, it's quite a beautiful ball. You can see that, see how much money and effort and time has been spent on creating this place.

But you're not concerned about the reception, especially right now.

Humming contentedly, you make your way through the various rich folks and scan the whole place down, memorizing it just in case something goes wrong- which, knowing the Doctor, will. Two possible exits. Other things, fragile things like glass, and in the edge, just obscured out of sight, what you assume is the control panel for the entire machine. And, ah, yes, the machine itself.

A huge machine in the center which you suppose is the 'technology to live forever'. You step closer to it, examining it with your eyes- you so desperately want to give it a scan, your fingers are itching for the concealed sonic, but you know people will notice so you instead step closer and run your fingers along the edge of the machine, the smooth metal.

Behind you, there's a slight movement, and a voice says, "It's astounding, isn't it?"

You whirl around. "Sorry?" You ask.

"That man. Lazarus. He was seventy-six years old one second, and then he suddenly comes out looking like twenty." The man says. "It's brilliant."

Giving him a nod of acknowledgement, you swoosh one finger in the air and sniff it, tasting the residue slightly; "It's science. Sonic microfield manipulator. I see, I see how that could work." You turn to him. "It did work, right? Were there any side effects? I'm guessing something of this scale, should have a bit of side effects. Micro-DNA cellular reconstruction? Fluctuation on an atomic basis?"

"Yes, it did work- Do you work here?" He questions, again. You turn to get a better look at him.

Nothing suspicious. Human male, in his twenties. Here because of family relations. Doesn't look like he _wants_ to be here. Uncomfortable in formal dress. Unmarried. No girlfriend. Probably trying to hit on you.

"No." You say, giving him a brilliant grin. "I work for myself. Freelance."

He grins. "You look good doin' it."

"That I do." You say, pressing your ear to the machine. "So, what's your name?"

"Leo." He says, but the last part is what gets you- "Leo Jones."

You perk up- finally, a potential lead! You scan him down, finding a quite similar appearance. They _could_ be related. "Related to Martha Jones?"

"Yeah. She's my sister. How do you know her?"

"She's my friend." Unable to resist, you take out your sonic (never mind _where_ it came from) and give the whole thing a good scan-over, taking in the readings; "Do you know where she went?"

Leo blinks. "She just ran past. With another man- the Doctor. Do you know him?"

"Oh, yes." You laugh, shaking your head, and put your sonic back. "I've known him for seven hundred years. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to investigate Lazarus a little. Ooh, nibbles." Plucking one out of a tray, you put the whole thing in your mouth. "I love nibbles."

Just then, there is a huge crash and you jump up, looking towards it to see the Doctor standing on a table, addressing everyone. "Listen to me! You people are in serious danger! You need to get out of here right now!"

Oh, they're _never_ going to listen if he does that. One of the crowd laughs at him and says, "Don't be ridiculous. The biggest danger here is choking on an olive."

_Oh, no._ She shouldn't have said that. That is worse than saying _what could possibly go wrong?_

Just as you'd feared, a giant monster leaps onto the mezzanine, and jumps down, smashing tables, causing chaos. People begin screaming and running in all directions- what is _it_ with people and screaming?- and everyone scatters. You spot Martha working on the exit and manage to get it open, atta girl, and turn towards the monster just as it drops a woman, bone dead.

Your instincts tell you it's Lazarus.

"Leo! Leo!" A woman appears besides you, and you turn to notice that Leo has fallen to the floor; so that must be- "Martha's mother, am I right?"

She looks up. "Yes, who are-" She's abruptly cut off by the monster turning towards them and snarling. You flip around, eyes wide, and grab the nearest weapon- a plate, and let out a little yelp as you block the monster's tail with it.

"I'm a friend of hers!" You yell back, "And I'm sorry but I'm a little busy!"

"Lazarus! Leave her alone!" A voice shouts, and you turn to see the Doctor, furious. Oh, god. This is- this is getting too fast. You watch as they're lead down the corridor and turn to follow them but the Doctor flashes you a final message: _get them to safety first._

_Dammit._ You take the hint and rush towards the people, who are piled across the glass, screaming. "What's wrong?" You ask Martha, who joins you just after getting her family to safety.

"Doors won't open. Can you do anything?"

"I'm a bloody _Time Lord_ , Martha. Of course I can do something." You snort. _Think, think, think._ Controls- you rush towards the controls and turn your setting up to forty-five, running the sonic over them. You hit a spot and _bingo!_ The doors release with a wail and people rush outside.

"Wait, say that again." Martha says, disbelieving; her eyes are wide.

"Ow?" You repeat distractedly. "Listen, I'm going to help-"

"No, I mean- you're a Time Lord?"

You roll your eyes- humans and their inability to believe. "No, I'm a raxacoricofallapatorius. _Yes_ I'm a Time Lord. Two hearts, seventh regeneration, the like."

Martha's eyes are wide. She seems frozen in place, unable to speak, and when she does, all that comes out of her mouth is a: "But-"

_Ugh._ You don't have _time_ for this! Spinning around, you point at her face. "You! Are you planning on helping or not?"

"I- I mean, yes-"

"Then _hurry_ and don't ask stupid questions!"

"But-"

Your hands grab her shoulders, frantically. You have to hurry up. You could be late. "Listen, I know you're confused, but I'll explain everything later. We need to go help the Doctor."

She bites her lip, looking at you, and then nods. You grab her hand and pull her towards the main lobby, towards the last place you saw the Doctor, and you _run, run, run._

Doesn't he think you care about him either? You do care, and right now you're terrified out of your mind that something must have happened to him, he must have ended up like that woman back there in the lobby, he must have been hurt or the monster would have caught him or-

There's a loud _boom_ that sends the floor rattling and your eyes widen, meeting Martha's- thinking the same thing. As quickly as you can, the two of you rush towards the sound of the explosion, only to crash into a running figure.

"What are you doing here?" He looks towards Martha, and then his gaze meets yours and his face grows stormy. "What are _you_ doing here?!"

You grab the sonic from Martha's hand and toss it to him. "You're welcome, ginger."

"But how-"

"We heard the explosion." Martha says, and glancing at his eyes on you, adds, "I heard the explosion. It was my idea to come."

Oh, you could _kiss_ her.

"I blasted Lazarus." He explains, glancing behind them.

"Did you kill him?"

Almost like a jinx, a roar, and you grab the two, pulling them behind you and breaking into a run as the monster gallops towards you.

"More sort of... _annoyed_ him, I'd say." The Doctor's hand grabs yours, and the three of you run as quickly as you can, away, towards the main lobby. You thank yourself internally that you decided on wearing combat boots as Martha stumbles slightly on her heels. "This way!"

The three of your turn the corner and find yourselves in the middle of the main lobby; "Nowhere to run." You note.

"What now?" Martha asks, desperate. "We've just gone round in a circle!"

"Martha, go. Family. _Now._ " You add, pointing. She looks torn, but when the roar of the monster nears, gives the two of you a final look before rushing away. "As to us, we can't let him get away."

Sadly, the scene of the monster galloping out of the corridor reminds you of NASCAR. The Doctor gives it one look and rushes towards the sonic microfield manipulator chamber, throwing it open; "We can't lead him outside. C'mon, get in!"

_What?_ You give him an are-you-serious look but he seems perfectly serious; with a sigh, you make your way into the machine and he follows you suit, shutting the door; "Now _what_ exactly were you doing here?"

In response, you grin up at him; "Checking if you're alive. Which that, you are. What are we doing in here again?"

He looks slightly surprised for a second and then, as always when he is flustered, goes into explaining mode: "He knows we're here. But this is his masterpiece. I'm betting he won't destroy it, not even to get at us."

"That's Laz- you know what, I'm not going to ask, I kind of guessed that." Rolling your eyes, you watch the shadow circling you before pointing out something very obvious: "But we're trapped."

"Well," He ponders the thought, and winces slightly; "Yeah, that's a slight problem."

"In other words, you don't have a plan."

"To be fair," The Doctor glances down at you with a frown before resuming watching the shadow of Lazarus; "The plan was to get inside here."

"Then what?"

"Well, then I'd come up with another plan."

"You stupid." You roll your eyes when he rustles slightly, his arm pressing against your chest; "Hey!"

"Sorry, sorry, sorry." He looks slightly sheepish and flustered, obviously a bit embarrassed at being too close- "Not much space." Bringing out his sonic screwdriver. "Here we are."

You raise your eyebrow as he attempts to duck down, pressed up against you; "I suppose you have a plan?"

"Improvise." He hums. You look down to see him opening the panel on the floor, working with the wires and processors.

You step back slightly to allow him more space, pressed up against the walls; "This reminds me of the Leisure Palace. Now _that_ was fun."

"I was at an obsessive stage in my life." He mumbles, trying to sound as matter-of-factly as you can, but when you look down at him it's rather obvious that he is blushing furiously- never mind what happened in the Leisure Palace. "I'm over it now."

"Oh, darling." You purr. "I'm sure you wouldn't miss up a chance to go at it again."

_"Please_ can we concentrate?" The Doctor says back, his voice muffled. You notice with a bit of delight that he doesn't deny what you'd said.

"All right, all right." You roll your eyes. "I'm guessing that's strictly human origin, am I correct?"

"Yes." He says, looking relieved that the two of you are talking about something he _isn't_ embarrassed about for once. "Probably from dormant genes in Lazarus's DNA. The energy field in this thing must have reactivated them. And it looks like they're becoming dominant."

"So it's a throwback." You repeat, in simpler words.

He keeps working on the wires- why is it taking so long?- and tells you, "Some option that evolution rejected for you millions of years ago, but the potential is still there. Locked away in your genes, forgotten about until Lazarus unlocked it by mistake."

"Like Pandora's box."

"Exactly." Reconnecting a few wires. "Nice dress, by the way."

You grin. "Good of you to notice the dress first."

He ducks down, again, and you can tell he's blushing again. You're just about to make another remark when the machine starts whizzing and lights flash; eyes wide, you ask, "Doctor, what's happening?"

"Sounds like he's switched the machine on." He hums, pulling out a few wires.

"Oh, and that's not _good_ , is it?"

"Well," He sucks in a breath, taking a look at the outside; "I was hoping it was going to take him a little bit longer to work that out."

The lights flash stronger, and you can feel your DNA begin to give in, just a bit. "Doctor, I don't want to hurry you, but-"

"I know, I know. Nearly done."

"Try reflecting the energy!" You yell, squeezing your eyes shut.

"I know, I'm trying!"

"Why is it taking you so bloody long?!"

"I'm out of practice!"

"REVERSE THE GODDAMN POLARITY!" You roar as the capsule whizzes- you can feel it tremor, probably about to go into overload. "NOW!"

"I'm trying! Just one more!"

He yanks the plug out and the whole thing shudders, the lights fading, and then there is a pulse outside. The whole thing shuts down and with a relieved sigh, you sag against the wall.

The Doctor opens the door and exits; you follow him, sonic clutched in your hand just in case. "I thought we were going to go through the blender then."

"Really shouldn't take that long just to reverse the polarity. I must be a bit out of practice."

You punch his arm. "No shit."

"Yes. We're never doing that again."

Giving him a cheshire grin, you poke his cheek; "Not even when we're alone?"

He seems unable to speak again; then, he stops in front of a body. Of _Lazarus'_ body. "None of that." He says quietly, and with sad eyes, looks down at the broken form of the scientist.

"Oh, God." Is all that comes out of your mouth, as you stare at the sight. "He seems so human again." Your fingers curl around his arm as you watch the unconscious form of Lazarus, eyes wide. "It's kind of pitiful."

"Eliot saw that, too. This is the way the world ends." His arm, slipping around yours, almost to comfort. "Not with a bang, but with a whimper."

* * *

"Listen," The Doctor approaches you, long after Martha Jones has gone to sleep, long after the Lazarus Experiment, when there is nothing to disturb the two of you but the steady hum of the TARDIS engines; "(Y/N)."

Honestly, you're surprised that he called your name at all. If you were him, you'd be right to be disappointed. You'd ignored his orders when he was just trying to make sure you were safe, and called the same orders bullshit while almost getting yourself killed.

"Doctor." You incline your head. The previous atmosphere of flirting and laughter is gone, replaced by a dread in your chest. You _don't_ want to fight with him again.

"(Y/N)." He pauses, and the moment he pauses the two of you say simultaneously, two words, "I'm sorry."

Both of you stop.

"So, uhm, I've just got to say-" He stops, "I'll never stop you again. You saved Martha, and all those people, and I won't prevent you from doing anything of the like, again. I mean, not to say- Just-"

Oh, isn't it great. The savior of the universe, the oncoming storm, the Doctor, reduced to a flushing mess in front of you.

You laugh, softly. "Just as long as you know who's in charge, ginger."

"Oh, of course." He raises his hands in a _give-up_ gesture. "Allons-y, (Y/N). It's your call."

Widening your eyes in a seemingly innocent gesture. "Then is it my call to do this?" You tell him, and your fingers scrabble at his tie, grabbing it and pulling him down so that his face is inches from yours.

"I did say you were in charge." He says, "But I was sort of talking about the adventures, not-"

"Not?" You ask, peering up at him through your eyelashes.

The Doctor gives you a look, and seems as though he's had quite enough; you grin as he wraps an arm around your back, the other ducking down to your knees, and lifts you straight up, bridal-style. "Hah. Now you have no choice but to shut up."

"Oh, no. There's really only one way to shut me up." You muse. "Just try not to be clueless."

He gives you a charming grin. "Oh, I think both of us know the clueless one isn't me."

That night you laugh, and you love, and you sleep.


	19. Sarah Jane

"So," Martha says, seemingly still not believing, "Let me sum this up. You're not human."

"Nope."

"You're a Time Lord, just like this 'Doctor'- who looks like John."

"Yep."

"You're his wife."

"Almost- fiance. Never got around to getting married." You correct her, as you pull on your stockings. "Apparently."

"And you're seven hundred years old."

You clap her on the shoulder. "Precisely! You're a smart one. Not everyone gets it first try."

"But that's not possible." She tells you. You roll your eyes and slip on your shoes, standing back up to look down at her; since you have at _least_ five centimeters on her. "How can you be from outer space?"

"I don't know, Martha Jones," You say, leaning down to poke her nose. "It's just a _dream._ "

"Of course it is!" She says, brushing her hair up into a bun. "I mean, come on. The mere _idea_ is ridiculous."

You look down, a grimace on your face. "Yeah, yeah." You mumble, placing the cap on your head. "It's all fun and games until someone comes and pounds the truth into you, isn't it?"

She gives you an apologetic look and you collapse back onto the stiff bed, sighing. You'd just been telling Martha, your best friend, about the astounding dream you'd had just the other day. The dream where you'd been an alien.

Just for a moment, you'd convinced yourself that you weren't a lowly maid from the tiny town of Farringham, but in fact an independent woman, in the far future, with a man with a magic box that happened to be your fiance, Martha at your side. You'd dreamt that you had fought a war, hard and long, changing faces, fighting. The dream had been so real and too good to be true that you'd thought, for a moment, that it could be true, that it _would_ be true, that this was just all a dream...

But no, the reality you'd created was the dream. Face it: you were a low-class working maid in 1917 in the school of Farringham, dreaming about freedom when in reality you were the furthest thing from it.

Catching your deeply perturbed look, the other maid, Jenny, places a hand on your shoulder.

"Oh, cheer up, Sarah." She comforts, and you give her a thankful smile. "At least we're not working anywhere worse. We could be in worse situations."

You turn away, suddenly feeling a bit guilty. You're in a good enough situation and here you are, just thinking of a world where you could never be. "Yes," You mumble, "I suppose you could."

_Cheer up, (Y/N)!_ The Doctor- bearing an uncanny resemblance to the man in the other room- had told you, an arm around you. _Allons-y!_ Even _that_ proved it; how he'd kissed you in your dream, so lovingly, that was just proof of it being fake because nothing so good could happen. A man you had nothing but a mere romantic infatuation with, saying so much to you.

But even if it had been word from a mere dream, you need to cheer up. Smoothing your hair down, you sit back up with a flash and put on a smile, even if it's just for show. "C'mon, off we pop."

"You say the strangest things sometimes, Sarah Jane." Jenny laughs, and the three of you head off to another day of work.

You'd pretended nothing was wrong, but these dreams had been plaguing you, for _so long-_ almost, if you could say, like another reality, or a world where everything had gone right.

* * *

Raising your free hand, you rap at the door, four sharp knocks. Today is your shift to bring in his morning tea, as you and Martha take shifts; which is both deeply unfortunate yet happy at the same time.

"Come in." Comes the voice, and you balance the tray on one hand, opening the door with the other, and enter the room.

Ah. There he is, the man from your dream; bearing an uncanny resemblance to the guy in your dream, the man who had changed faces but loved you all the same.

John Smith, but in your dream, the Doctor.

A man who travels time and space, hand in hand with you, in the magic blue box he calls the TARDIS.

Perhaps why your subconscious had chosen _him_ to be the Doctor and no others, had been because you know for a fact, that you have... _feelings_ for him. An impossible thought, you know; especially when coming to terms with reality, the reality of him being a high-class well-bred man, and you being nothing but a housemaid to him.

You turn towards him, and find him to be not fully dressed, to your mortification; your cheeks flame scarlet and you turn away, saying as politely as you can, "Pardon me, Mister Smith. You're not dressed yet. I can come back later."

"No, it's all right, it's all right." He says, apologetically. In that voice- that voice that sometimes jokes you to so lightly when he's happy, that voice that always says nice things to you when no one else does. "Put it down. I was er... sorry, sorry. Sometimes I have these extraordinary dreams."

You turn, but realize you've stopped working and tiptoes up to draw the curtains back; as nonchalantly as you can, you ask, "What about, sir?" You say, tilting your head.

"I dream I'm this adventurer. This daredevil, a madman. The Doctor, I'm called." He frowns, as if trying to remember the details, but you can't concentrate on that; your eyes are wide as you watch him.

You had the same dream as him... work of the devil, perhaps? Your eyes are wide as you listen to him recount his dreams.

"And last night I dreamt that you were there, as my fiance." He counts off. "We'd met, after so long, after we'd been separated by an explosion, of our planet..." He frowns. "Why, Martha was there too. She was our companion, and the two of you got along just as well as you do in real life..."

"Sir?" You say, shocked. John turns, from his train of thought. "Yes?"

"No, it's just... I had the exact same dream, sir." You say, "But it's not in my place to say. I'll get going, sir."

"Oh, no, no, no." He reaches out and as if he can't stop himself, his hand snags onto your arm before you stumble back, mortified. "Sorry, sorry- Sarah, tell me more."

"Well, sir." You start, but you find that your tongue is glued to your mouth, unable to talk, as you see him staring at you in interest; a fiery blush comes to light your cheeks. You cannot do this. "Sir, I, uhm, I had a dream that we traveled in a blue box... I'm not quite sure what it was called, but it stood short for something. And we were from the future, years away. We went to see a star, and you kept changing faces..."

"Yes," He cries; "Yes, that's quite right! How..." John ponders the thought for a moment before saying, 'Why, it's the work of the devil..."

"Sir?" You say, cautiously, and your hand comes up to self-consciously tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "I'll get going, sir."

"Yes, yes." He waves you away. You watch him with worried eyes, but you know it's not your place...

You turn away from him with a final look, and shut the door behind you.

_It's not your place._

But this is too much, too strange to be true, yet it has happened; you remember how vivid the dream was, how real the dream seemed to be; you remember it all, the fire pumping through your veins, the way your face split into a grin as you remembered all that information, and how _agile_ your body had seemed to be.

In fact, you wouldn't be wrong if you said you felt so tough you could win every boy in this whole school.

You can feel it still, the way your muscles had felt so oiled and well trained, the training of seven hundred years. You _know_ it's just a dream... but can you at least try?

Almost like you're stuck in a trance, you put yourself into a defensive stance, forearms blocking your face, and is surprised by the fact that you even know how to do this. You put one foot one-and-a-half step in front of the other, like you'd seen in your dream, in the war, and you square your shoulders back, muscles tensing up.

Stepping forwards, you use the momentum of your hips to swing your fist and it hits the air; you remember what (Y/N), the girl in your dream, had called it.

_Right hook._

"Oh, look," A voice says, from behind you, and you spin around, face red, to see two boys sniggering. "They're teaching the _maids_ how to fight."

You bite back a remark and hang your head, not because you feel ashamed, but because you're worried you'll try out that right hook on them. Ma always said your temper got the worst of you.

Swallowing back what seems to be a thousand curses, you turn and leave as quietly as you can; "I apologize, sir."

Behind you, you don't see the Matron enter John's quarters, and you most definitely don't see her examine a crack in the plaster, the place where you'd thrown the punch just mere seconds ago.

* * *

A network of frowns are etched across the face as you sweep the yard silently, your hands gripping the broom. You are deeply perturbed from the conversation that you had happened to stumble across this morning; and although Martha and Jenny have been concerned as to why you are so silent, you convince them that nothing is wrong when in truth it is nothing of the like.

_"Have you seen this, John? The annual dance at the village hall tomorrow. It's nothing formal, but rather fun by all accounts. Do you think you'll go?"_

_"Well, I should imagine that you'd be, er, I mean, I never thought you'd be one for- I mean, there's no reason why you shouldn't, of course. If you do, you may not- I, I probably won't, but even if I did then I couldn't. I mean I wouldn't want to-"_

Squeezing your eyes shut, you hold back a cry of complaint and hold your tongue as you sweep away at the lawn where the boys are to practice their shooting. The Matron- or should you say, _Joan-_ seems to like him more and more. The two are- daresay, from what you'd dreamed, 'flirting'.

It hurts, whether you want to or not. It reminds you of the characters in your dream, (Y/N) and the Doctor. You and John. Of course in real life you'd be nothing like it, but in the dream you'd been a perfect couple.

_Stop it,_ you tell yourself. _You can't torture yourself over something that's never going to happen._

Never? Ever? You want to question. There is no possibility, that these vivid dreams could in fact be reality?

_Stop._

You chide yourself. Don't get ahead of things, because it'll just let you down.

_But is there a chance... just one chance..._ You catch yourself as you realize your eyes are drifting over to the rifles lying on the porch, shiny and clean, kept just for the students and teachers. In your dream, you'd seen (Y/N) shoot anything, ranging from 'energy blasters' to pistols to AK-47s to... rifles.

If you could try... just try... you set your broom against the counter and before you know it, your hand is running against the edge of a rifle, feeling its gleaming edge. In the dream you'd hated using one, but just to prove that you _could..._

Slowly, you bring the gun up, your hands somehow familiar on its shiny edge. Your hand grasps it, just the right way as you remember, and from half a football field away, you shoot, perfectly;

_Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang._

Five shots and you realize you haven't taken account the noise; hastily dropping the gun, you pick up your broom and hurry back into sweeping, brushing the last of the dust from the lawn.

As you'd expected, the headmaster comes running- but so does John. You watch him, cautiously, as he looks around, and examines the guns; he spots you and you duck your head, going back to sweeping.

Until the headmaster's voice rings out, loud and clear; "Who did this?"

You turn, and he is pointing to the target, the circles painted upon the circular wooden frame.

And in the circle, five perfect bulls-eye shots fired from half a football field away, seeming to taunt you like your dream had as you bite back an instinct to acknowledge the shots as your own.


	20. Almost There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> twenty chapters!!!  
> congrats peeps but we still have a loooong way to go if u know what i mean ;)

No one ever looks for maids unless they have a certain, specific intention.

This is what worries you.

You follow Tim Latimer to the edge of the school, just on the brink of the forest, as he fidgets nervously, one hand in his pocket. His small form seems to be wracked with worry as he leads you along, further and further away until the two of you are in a secluded spot, a bench where no one else seems to frequent.

"Miss Sarah Jane." He says, finally, turning around.

"Yes, sir?" You ask, as politely as you can, but wearily too. What does he want you here for? Is he leading you to the boys, the ones who always make passing remarks at you and spit at you like you're a lowlife? "Can I help you with anything?"

"Please... just call me Tim." Tim seems uncomfortable with all the formalities. "Anyways, I wanted to talk to you about... about Mister Smith."

What? What is that supposed to mean? You frown. "I'm not quite sure what you mean." You say, and there is a hint of bitterness in your voice as you utter out the next few words; "Information of Mister Smith would be better acquainted with the matron. Nurse Redfern, if you will. Should I-"

"No, no, no." He shakes his head. "I was just wondering... how close are you with him?"

You tilt your head. "Not very." You tell him, "After all he's a schoolteacher and I'm just a maid..."

"But you know him, yes?"

"We've known each other since children." You're not sure where this comes out from but you know it's the truth, even though your memories tell you otherwise. "We both come from Gallifrey."

"And that's... Ireland?"

"I think." To come to think of it, though, you realize you have no idea where it is. "Somewhere small. Sometimes the sky is orange."

His eyes widen.

"What do you know of this?" He asks, glancing behind him, and thrusts forwards a hand; on his palm is a fob watch, old, the surface filled with random little circles. Nothing of interest, just a bit wonky and old. You can feel your eyes becoming oddly drawn to it, but ignore the sensation and instead your fist tightens.

You tilt your head. "Why, it's just a watch. Rather old, I believe. Beautiful design."

Tim seems to hesitate for a moment, but when you look at him pointedly, he blurts out, "Mister Smith had it... And I was wondering if you had any sort of... connection to it."

You have no idea what he's talking about, you really do. But if you don't, then why is your entire body screaming for you to _listen,_ to find out more about this? It's a _watch,_ for god's sake!

"I don't." You shake your head. "If that watch is Mister Smith's, it's most likely an old family relic. Now, if you'll excuse me, Mister Latimer-"

"(Y/N)." He blurts out.

You stop in your tracks, turning ever so slightly, and your eyes are huge as you stare at him. Disbelieving what you'd heard.

_"What?"_

He blinks. "That's your name, innit? Doctor (Y/N) (L/N)."

What is he talking about? What- who- "My name is Sarah Jane Smith." You say, trying to sound as unfazzled as you can, and after a moment, add, "Sir."

"But I-" He stops, and then you can feel it, you _know_ what he's going to say- his mouth opens, and forms one word.

"Doctor."

Your eyes widen and as quickly as you can, you whip around, startled- how does he _know_ all this? You are starting to think that John is right, that it _is_ in fact work of the devil.

"I- I must go. Excuse me, sir."

_"Wait!"_ He cries, but you are gone, every instinct in your body screaming at you to get away, before something happens...

Before you find something out.

* * *

Numbly, you steady yourself on the mop as your hair hangs around your face. Emotions are brimming in you, just short of bursting out; you feel both complicated, exhausted, confused and utterly _heartbroken_ simultaneously as you do the only thing you can: work.

Does Tim Latimer know something? You feel like he does, from the way he'd said those names with so much meaning, the way he'd called (Y/N) or the Doctor like they were real people. But it's not true, right? It's just dreams. Fairy tales. Your own brain making up tales to compensate for your horrible life. Those things can't really be.

Then what _is_ it? How'd you managed to get perfect shots that time you'd picked up the gun, and you _swear for god's sake,_ that feeling is familiar. You've never used one before yet the feeling of dread had spread across your chest, restraining you like a choke. You swore that it didn't make sense, at all.

Why would a maid who'd worked all her life have no blisters, no weak knees, no fear? Why would a girl who'd lived in Farringham most her life have such developed muscles, and how would a girl like that have a body remembering how to fight?

It doesn't make sense in the least. (Y/N) (L/N), in your dream, is everything you _want_ to be- flirtatious, beautiful, carrying the same body with a different weight. She is something you _cannot_ have, though; freedom, confidence, acceptance. A man who loves her.

Your insides, as you'd said, is a jumble of confusion. You know that's _part_ of the reason why you're like this, why you feel so down, but that's not to full reason- the other half is due what you'd seen.

Why was Joan entering John's study? And no such thing as _because they're friends..._ you'd seen it, you'd seen it all. How they'd laughed, how they'd been so _shy_ around each other...

How they'd kissed.

It had been just once, and it had been short and awkward. But you'd seen in nevertheless. John's face flushing furiously, awkwardly taking dear _Joan's_ hands in his as he'd told her to have a good night. How he'd looked at her with so much shyness, the look of a man falling in love.

You knew it wasn't her fault, but you couldn't help but feel mad, jealousy bubbling up from your chest like an angry beast; who _was_ she to do that? Why would she do that?

Why is she in his study, right now?

Biting your lip, you look down and lean against the wall, ignoring how much your neck hurts as you keep your face that way. Hoping no one will notice you; the last thing you need are those boys aggravating you.

"You!" A voice interrupts you, and you look up. Speak of the devil; the boy is there, the boy who likes to make your life a living hell. The spoilt one; Baines? "Put a little more into it, will you?"

You close your fist and squeeze your eyes shut, opening your fists, closing it, repeating the action. This... you...

But all that comes out is a "Yes, sir."

He gives you a dirty look and flounces away, sniffing weirdly, as stuck-up and posh as he'd always been. You do hope that's a cold and not just the sniffles.

You sigh and finish up the last of the mopping, carrying the equipment away. Why can't you find it in yourself to stand up? To say something, _anything,_ like what (Y/N) had done, back in the dream? Why do you have to be so timid?

Reaching the supply closet, you stick the equipment back in and close the door, only to crash into another figure; flinching, you stagger away to find-

"Martha?" You ask, eyes wide.

"(Y/N)!" She yells. You stagger away. What is _it_ with people and calling you (Y/N)? You're nothing like her, you're different, you're worse, a watered-down version- "I mean- Sarah Jane, it doesn't matter. We need to go! _Now!_ "

"Go where?"

"Away! Anywhere!"

She's finally gone mad from the stress. "What are you _talking_ about?"

"Wait- I'll explain later, just _come on!_ " She grabs your hand and your eyes are wide as she rushes, back where you'd gone, towards... John's study? Your eyes are wide as she shoves open the door and strides in, but your form quickly deflates as you are met with the sight that you hadn't wanted to be met with, ever; Joan and John, locked together in a dance.

"They've found us." Martha announces, breathless. Your eyes are wide and as you watch John's face turn into one of anger, shrink behind her; you can't _do_ this, what is she doing? Why is she dragging you into this?

"This is ridiculous." Joan says- that _goddamned Joan, always in the way, NEVER respecting you-_

"Martha, I've warned you." Comes another voice, and you peek over Martha's shoulder, to see John. Defending Joan. Because obviously, he _loves her so much._ "You too, Sarah Jane? I thought at least you'd have the sense to-"

"It wasn't me!" You blurt out, and your eyes are filling with tears as you look down in shame, your face feeling hot; "I'm sorry, sir, I tried to stop her-"

Martha shoots you a look, seemingly disappointed, but you're rooted in place, unable to move. "They've found us, and I've seen them. They look like people, like us, like normal. I'm sorry, but you've got to open the watch. Where is it?" She lets go of your hand and hurriedly rushes to the mantelpiece, searching through his everyday things; but when she seems unable to find something, whirls around in horror. "Oh, my God. Where's it gone? Where's the watch?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You had a watch. A fob watch. Right there." She points, and you can't help but remember a fob watch. Someone had shown it to you, someone other than the Doctor, a student... but you couldn't remember _which_ one-

"Did I? I don't remember." He frowns.

"I can't see what concern it is of yours." Joan butts in. You shrink further towards the corner at her speaking up. So they're fully... _together,_ now, as one would say, right? They're happy and love each other so much...

"But we need it. Oh, my God, Doctor, we're hiding from aliens, and they've got Jenny and they've possessed her or copied her or something, and you've got to tell me, where's the watch?" Martha blurts out, spinning towards John.

_What?_ Your eyes widen at her ranting; what does that mean? Why is she calling him the Doctor, and why is she calling _you_ (Y/N)? What does that mean?

When John doesn't reply, furrowing his brows in confusion, she spins around to you- _why is she looking at you?!_

"You'll remember, right, (Y/N)? Doctor, you told me not to wake her first, that it would put her in trouble; so I've come to you now, _where_ is it?"

'Wake' you? What is that supposed to mean? It would put you in trouble? You shake your head and step back, terrified, as Joan and John's eyes turn to you.

"Oh, I see. Cultural differences." John explains to the nurse, almost apologetically, and turns to Martha again, leaning down; "It must be so confusing for you. Martha," John says, slowly, as if to make her understand, "This is what we call, a _story_."

"Oh you complete-" Your friend seems to stop herself from saying anything worse, then crossing her arms, remarks angrily, "This is not you. _This_ is 1913."

"Good." John says, in a way that you would educate a little child. "This _is_ 1913."

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, but I've got to snap you out of this." Martha says, and glancing back at you; "And don't think _you're_ off the hook, either."

"What does that-" You squeak, but Martha interrupts you; you watch with horrified fascination as Martha raises her arm and slaps John across the face, hard.

Joan's voice is raised with horror and anger; "Martha!" She cries.

"Wake up! You're coming back to the TARDIS with me and (Y/N)." The said servant yells. Why- why does she keep concerning you? If she's going to bother John-

"How dare-" John seems absolutely seething now; you shrink and back away from him as he grabs Martha's arm and starts pushing her, out of the doorway, one hand clutching his flaming cheek. "How _dare_ you! I'm not going anywhere with an insane servant. Martha, you are dismissed. You will leave these premises immediately."

Your eyes are wide as you watch Martha, but she doesn't look the least concerned; then his face turns to you, and he softens, but just slightly; "And _you_ are dismissed for the day. Now get out, both of you!"

Martha turns and begins running, but you can feel your eyes prickling and wet as you reply, "Yes, sir." and scramble away, towards the maid's quarters where you can get at least a little bit of comfort.

But when you turn the corner, Martha is there, her hand around your forearm like a vice, pulling you. "Come _on!_ "

"Martha, you've gone _mad._ " You attempt to reason with her, and your eyes are wide but you follow her anyway, for some reason. "Please, Martha, we can convince him to give you back your job, it's not too late-"

"It's not _the job_ that matters!" She snaps, whirling around towards you. "It's the fact that your dreams, the ones you'd told me about? It's true! John Smith- that man- he's actually the Doctor, and _he is your fiance._ You're a Time Lord, too, and you're much better than this, much more confident and brave and amazing-" Stopping to catch a breath. "Come _on!_ "

"What-" You open your mouth to speak but she's rushing into the room, beginning to change, throwing you a pair of neatly folded clothes from the bottom of her things. You catch them neatly and follow her suit, even though you have no idea why; these clothes are strange, new, and don't look like they're from this century but you don't complain, because Martha must have a reason for all of this, right?

"There, now you look _much_ more like yourself." She remarks, and you stand in front of a mirror, mouth parted, staring. You look _exactly_ like (Y/N) (L/N), the clothes she'd worn all those many times in the dream.

Black trousers- slacks, were they called?- with a clean white button-down shirt, heeled oxford shoes and a heavy trench coat.

"I-" You feel even more confused now, with the outfit. Your head feels clear, but confused. "I don't get it."

"You will, I promise, (Y/N)." Martha pleads- why are you being called that? You back away when she nears you, but she grabs both your hands in hers and says, calmly, "(Y/N), I need you to calm down, OK? There's a locket, in your pocket, and there's an object. I need you to take both of them out, put the locket on, and name the object."

With shaking hands, you do as she says. The locket is light and cool, made of silver, and the strange circles- the ones you'd seen in the fob watch, although you don't remember where- are engraved here too, and even though every instinct in your body is screaming at you not to, you put it on. The next object is not so easy, though; a strange object, bulky and seemingly not from this time, either. You run your fingers over the mechanism.

"What is it?" Martha prods.

You frown, the word on the tip of your tongue, and you try to speak it but it's so _hard._ It's a simple word- right there, in the back of your brain, _just_ out of reach. Your mouth opens but the only words that come out are; "I don't know."

Her face falls but she tries not to be disappointed; "Listen," Martha says, leaning closer, "I'm going to town to get the Doctor. You stay here, don't let anyone in, and try to think of the name of that thing, OK?"

You nod.

"I'll get the Doctor, we'll come back, and I _promise_ I'll explain everything. But for the moment, let's start simple; try to name that soni- that thing."

"You'll be back quickly, right?" You say, with a feeble voice. "And you'll get John."

"Yes, I will." She says, and without another word rushes away.

It seems like so long you do nothing, nothing but stare at the object in your hand, the foreign object. Five minutes? Ten? Time is hard to say. The Doctor had held it in your dream, you remember this, and so had (Y/N)- the tip had lit up blue. You remember you'd loved it, treasured it. You know what it's called, you just have to say it and you'll remember...

_My name is Sarah Jane Smith._ You try to convince yourself, but you know it's no longer working. The word is so close, almost there...

(Y/N)- is that your real name? Do _you_ exist at all? You'd treasured it, a lot. You turn it around in your hands, and you can spot a button, just there. For a moment, you're caught in a flashback, if that can even be called one, of you holding out the screwdriver, the other hand working furiously at wires. And then again, working on a... fountain? It seems like another place, so far away.

You _know_ this thing. You _love_ it.

Bringing it out in front of you, you aim it at the lamp and your finger hovers over the button. Ever so slowly you press it, and the small room is filled with bleeping sounds, and the light goes out. It's almost there... almost to your tongue...

And slowly, as if you are cherishing that name, you say it out loud.

"Sonic..." You whisper, and although you don't know why you're whispering you are. "Sonic. Sonic screwdriver."

It's a sonic screwdriver.

You sit there in the dark, heart thumping from both excitement and fear, and your numb fingers come to unlock the locket from around your neck, bringing it down. You've never seen this before, but this seems so... familiar.

Why is this there? What are those circles? You feel like you should be able to recognize them, from somewhere, but you- you're confused. You have no idea what's happening- You're just about to try opening it when there's the sound of pattering footsteps, three of them; rushing to the window, the locket clutched in your fist, you gasp as you see Joan, Martha and the Doctor rushing towards the school.

Wait- when... when did you start calling him the Doctor?

You can't stand it anymore, you're too confused- Martha had talked about the locket as if it had been something special, so you can only hope that the answers to all your existence is inside. That this will help you somehow.

_Answers. I need answers._

Your fingers close around the locket, and with a single click, it snaps open.


	21. Useless

Damn, it's sure been a long time.

You know you shouldn't be happy and this is a horrible situation, but still, you can't help your mouth from curving into a great big smile as you rush down the stairs, rolling your sonic in your hand as you mentally inspect your body.

Being human had been- and this is no offense to all your human friends- _horrible._ You loathe the whole one-heart shenanigan they have going around, and not to mention the _bore!_ God, that is just too boring for your taste. Or maybe that's just 1913 Farringham. You sure hope you're never returning to Farringham again. You hate it here. Too... mellow.

Grimacing a little at that thought, you reach the final step and rush out of the doors, the tails of your coat flying behind you as you run towards the very obvious commotion in the courtyard; with all those people and whatnot.

You enter the school and the boys are all taking up arms; what's happening? You presume the school is under attack, but what do the boys have to do with anything?

Turning to the nearest boy, you point at his face; "You. Hutchinson, was it? What's happening?"

"Go back to your cleaning, girl." He sneers, but the fear that you'd had back when you were Sarah Jane is all gone, replaced by a mere annoyance for the boy- and a slight bit of anger. How _dare_ he treat you like that?

You grab his gun in response, tucking it under your arm and cocking it; he protests but you spin around; "What happened?"

"The maid is crazy!" He laughs, _at you_ , and his eyes flicker to the gun. "I have no doubt that you don't know how to shoot that, much less fight. Now, unless you want to lose your job-"

Ugh, why do people make it so _hard?_

"What's happening?"

"That's it! I shall be informing you to Mister Smith-"

"What's happening?" You repeat, quietly.

"We're under attack." He swallows. "They're looking for Mister Smith, but-"

Giving him a small curtsy, mockingly, you throw the gun to the side with a snort before you head towards the Doctor's study, the most likely place where he is; you need to snap him out of the whole 'John Smith' persona, and _fast._

Your hands close around the sonic screwdriver when your fingers land on the handle of the door, only to find it open. You're just about to push it open when you can hear sounds coming from his study, and instead choose to press your ear against the door, listening.

"Yes, to pass my exams. Can't you see this is true?" You hear Martha- good old Martha, just saved your life- say.

And then the reply, that voice-

That voice you feel so... _jealous_ of. You can feel a type of anger boiling in you, the type of anger that's not angry but more of a disappointment. The Doctor- who'd been _engaged to you-_ had kissed her. Danced with her.

Hell, had he slept with her?

You can feel a knot of dread coming up in your stomach but swallow it down. _You have to think about getting him awake first. Then he'll snap out of it. Save these people first, and then you can be selfish._

"I must go." You hear her say, but it's too late; you kick the door open and stride into the room. Your eyes scan over it, to see Martha with the nurse... but no Doctor. Searching the place for the watch, no doubt.

"Oh, hello, Martha Jones!" You greet, cheerily. "How do you do?"

She scans over you, and seems to decide that you are the same as ever; "Did you find out the name of the object I told you?"

Oh, so she doesn't know? Hmm. You'd thought you and that dull woman would have been so much more different. Maybe she's inside of you, that's all. Dormant. "Yes. It's called a sonic screwdriver. Just as the thing in my hand is called a biodata module." You toss the locket to her. "Those were some nice pictures in there."

She seems to get a grasp of what's happening, finally, and her eyes widen; "You looked?"

"Mm-hm." You say, and spin around. "And look who it is, Joan Redfern. Tell me, do you realize you've been snogging my fiance for the past few days?"

"What?" She seems shocked, even more so than before, and stares at you; "It is no place of yours, Sarah Jane, to comment in such a pretentious manner-"

"Oh, I got _every_ place to do that." You laugh, and it's not those kind of nice laughs you do with the Doctor but much more bitter, much more pronounced, much more forced. _My fiance loves you_. "And, lady, I'm in a good mood because my name is really (Y/N) (L/N)."

Joan seems horrified at the prospect- which, you can kind of tell, because then you'd be a kind of 'competitor' for her: you'd know, you'd felt the same way when she'd been eating your future husband's face off. "Sarah Jane-"

"Oh, enough with the Sarah Jane." You wave your hand, a slight tug of annoyance growing in you; you're usually really patient, but you can't be, not to her. "That was just a fake identity to hide myself using the chameleon arch and the biodata module. It contains all my biological information, written and processed, inside of the locket. The release of the stream of both physical and neurological information is activated only when it comes into physical contact within my reach, and then _boom!_ " You jerk forwards and she flinches; "I'm me." Spreading your hands. "Two hearts, inner body temperature of fifteen degrees. Oh, and I'm an engineer."

"Impossible." She whispers. You pat her shoulder.

"Very possible. Science and technology department. Ex-soldier. In fact, I fought in the same squadron as your boyfriend."

"But what-" She staggers back from you, just a bit. "The future appalls me more so... Then you are not of human origin either, I take it?"

"Oh, yes. I'm the same species of Johnny boy." You throw open the door. "And speaking of Johnny boy, we gotta go find him. Mind helping?"

"Those boys are going to fight." She repeats. Oh, goodie. She's _shocked._

"Ye-es." You stretch out.

Her mouth becomes firm, one of determination, and she watches you for a moment before saying, "I might not be a doctor, but I'm still their nurse. They need me."

"Oh, no they don't." You roll your eyes. "They don't need the nurse, they need the Doctor."

She looks slightly hurt, but rushes away anyway. Instantly you turn to Martha and grab her wrist; "Listen, the watch isn't here."

Her eyes widen. "Where is it, then?"

"Uhm..." You wince. "That's the problem. I dunno. One of the boys have it."

_"What?"_

"I know, I know." You murmur, looking behind you quickly; "First priority is finding the Doctor. Step two is waiting it out. Step three, well, find the watch if we-" That presence- you can feel it. "Run!"

You shove Martha out of the door and the two of you run. Your sense of danger has never failed you, just as it does now; you turn back as you descend the stairs and a girl is standing there, a girl with a balloon, watching you.

The Family of Blood are here.

You hurry down the stairs, about to tell Martha about the girl, when Martha freezes, you bumping into her; and that same something stops you in your tracks.

Joan and the Doctor- are _kissing._

You bite your lip and look away instantly, trying to get that image out of your mind, the one that's so _wrong._ The Doctor looking head-over-heels for someone... someone that's not _you._

Swallowing your disappointment, you turn back to see John hurrying away with a final glance at her. You remember, that was how he looked at you, once, when he was still a Time Lord. When they were back on Gallifrey. When you were so confident that you knew all of him; how he'd talk _more_ when he was flustered, how he loved to take your wrists in his hands, thumbs running over your pulse points, burying his face in your hair. Laughing, kissing, holding hands, talking together, making love.

Joan watches him as he goes away, and what you can see is that it reminds you, just a bit, of _you-_ that wistful look, like he's swept you off your feet.

You can sense Martha's eyes on you, and she looks like she's trying to console you but you notice something else, something you hadn't noticed due to everything happening.

That look on her face- it's you.

She loves the Doctor too.

Why? How many more before her, after her, with her? You look away sharply and squeeze yourself past her, rushing towards Joan; "He doesn't know who he is, doesn't he?"

"You- you've done quite enough, thank you." She pushes you away, hugging herself, and you feel a flash of pity for her; but what have you done? Told her the truth? Were you supposed to let her live out her happy little life with your _fiance,_ one you've been with for a near _seven hundred years?_

Yes, you're selfish. Deal with it.

"What have I done? Told you the truth?" You echo your thoughts. "Joan, nothing good's going to come out of loving him. You'll die, you'll be maimed, you'll cry when your heart breaks. There's no such thing as a happy ending, not with the Doctor."

You know this is wrong. But it's the truth, isn't it?

"What about you?" She claims, and you raise your hand, one hand in your pocket, sonic gripped tightly. "Are you just saying this because he, in truth, is your fiance? Should _you_ not stay away from him also?"

"We're different." You say, but even that sounds feeble, in your mouth.

"How?"

"You may not believe it, but I'm seven hundred years old. I'm a traumatized ex-soldier who fought besides whom you call John Smith in the biggest war of the universe. I snapped him out of it when he went crazy, tried to murder thousands, and I held him when he cried because his planet was exterminated. I stopped him from becoming a mass murderer, and at the same time I stopped myself from becoming one. Him?" You point, out towards the doors; "He needs me. He needs someone to control him, to keep him from stepping over the line like he's attempted to do so many times. He need someone to keep him from falling into grief, because of the _so many things_ that he's done in the war. He needs someone he loves, someone to fight for, because to hell with it; if I wasn't there, he would be dead already."

Joan's hands are shaking as she watches you. Unable to take in the information.

And then ever so softly, she says, "I did not ask whether you deserved to be with him or not. I asked whether you were confident that your story would end up a happy one."

You watch her, transfixed. Rooted in place.

"How do you know you will be happy, in the end?" She asks.

_Yes, how?_

That's quite enough; you feel it, the anger _seething_ in you, and grab Martha's hand as the bullets cease. "We're going outside, Martha."

She is watching you too. Eyes wide. Just like Joan is.

"Come _on!_ " You say, and shake her out of it; quickly she nods and the two of you run, run out of the school, towards the courtyard, where the headmaster is;

With the girl. The daughter in the Family of Blood. His hand is outstretched towards her, and you get what's happening: he thinks she's harmless.

So many things happening! You open your mouth to shout but Martha beats you to it. "Mister Rocastle! Please, don't go near her."

"You were told to be quiet." Rocastle- that nasty old man- snaps.

"Just listen to me. She's part of it. Matron, tell him."

"I think that." Joan says, and her voice is quiet, besides the Doctor- when did she get there? "I don't know. I think you should stay back, Headmaster."

Nobody's helping! You're all alone _again, just like you were so many years ago-_

"John!" You plead, turning to him. _Please,_ let him snap out of it, you're alone again...

"She was, she was with, with Baines in the village." He accuses, pointing. Shaking in fear. The Doctor, shaking- in fear.

You turn back to Mister Rocastle but the girl seems no longer interested in him; she is watching you with a tilted head, face in a wide grin, and that's when you realize that she _knows_ about you. You smell like a Time Lord now.

"Mister Smith, I've seen many strange sights this night, but there is no cause on God's Earth that would allow me to see this child in the field of battle, sir." His voice turns less stern, as he crouches down and addresses the kid; "Come with me."

The little girl tilts her head again, and her eyes move from you, to the Doctor, to Mister Rocastle again. "You're funny." She claims, in that robotic monotone voice.

"That's right. Now take my hand." He encourages. Oh- that _stupid man-_

" _So_ funny." She says, and almost if telling you to _look,_ her hand reaches behind her. You know what's going to happen next- what she's going to do-

"Mister Rocastle!" You yell, and rush towards him, but it's too late; he disintegrates into ash before your very eyes and you feel a lump in your throat as you watch the dust settle. If the _Doctor_ was here, he would have saved them. If he was here, he could stop them with a snap of the finger.

If he was here, you wouldn't have to worry, because for god's sake he's been worrying for the two of you for too long. You turn, watching the boys. Their wide eyes, terrified forms, how they're not ready for war, not even 1913, a whole _year_ before the first world war.

They remind you of yourself.

So many people, today. You step forwards, steering clear of the black ashes that used to be Mister Rocastle, and come to face the girl with more confidence than you can muster.

"Are you from the Family of Blood?" You ask.

"You know I am." She says. "Come with me and there will be no more casualties. Everyone will live."

"Except for me." You point out, cooly. "Where is the rest of your family?"

"Here and there." She says, and breaks out into a laugh; "We have your TARDIS, too. Surrender and your precious Time Lord, that one-" She points to the Doctor; "Can go free."

You reach in and grab your sonic screwdriver from your pocket, as a form of consolation; you can feel their eyes on you, Martha and Joan and the Doctor and all the boys. "You have no right to threaten me like this."

"You brought this upon yourself." She says, and lets out that tinkering laugh. "Come with us!"

"Yeah, no." You cross your arms and begin talking; which is, obviously, the only thing you can do if you don't want to kill her. "Do you know how many articles of the Shadow Proclamation you're breaching right now? Article 15, murder is not a rule of war. You murdered," You add, "So that's a death penalty for you. Article 57, prohibits the destruction of a level 5 planet if no rule is broken. And what planet is this?"

"Earth."

You cross your arms, sternly. "And it's a level five planet. You are destroying property upon here. That's another death penalty for you."

She hisses. "We don't care."

"Oh, I think you will." You say, and lean closer to her; "I request a parlay in accordance with the Shadow Proclamation. Take me to your leader."

It is only then that Martha speaks up; "(Y/N), you _can't-_ "

"Oh, Martha." You beckon her closer, and whisper, as fast as possible; "Get everyone to safety. They'll keep me alive for a few minutes, ten minutes at best. I'm counting on the fact that they've got two Time Lords, they won't miss up on the chance to get both of them. Get the Doctor to safety, and most of all, get Tim Latimer; he has the fob watch. He'll come to you, I'm guessing. Get that dork to open it. I'll try to buy some time, all right?"

Her eyes widen and she nods, ever so slightly. You grin and pat her on the back, turning to the little girl; "C'mon. Off we go then."

"You will come willingly?"

"Haven't you heard _anything_ I was saying? It's a parlay. Par-lay. Shadow Proclamation demands it."

She gives you a look, and then turning on her heel, walks away. You turn your back, winking at Martha, and blow the Doctor a good kiss; he seems flustered at all of that.

And then you follow the girl.


	22. Doubts?

You shift uncomfortably as the family of Blood crowd around you, watching you with interested eyes. Your wrists are wrapped in handcuffs, bound around a pipe line to make sure you don't escape.

"All right. I requested a parlay, not a trip to the zoo." You joke. "Any chance you could let me go?"

"We have the Time Lord." The leading one- the one inhibiting the body of Baines- says. "She will grant us immortality."

You slump against the pipes. "That's what you're obsessed with? Well, then, let me tell you, immortality is not as good as you think, especially when you're a woman. And I'm talkin' to you, mom and daughter. You ever tried seven hundred years' worth of hormones? Not very nice at all."

"We need no body." Jenny- or rather the thing inside her body- struts. "We need these bodies no more, since we will become immortal."

You frown. "Shame." You tell her; "I quite like that look on you."

"Enough!" Daughter Mine says- nearly the first time she's spoken; and turns to you. "Let us have her essence now."

"And how are you going to do this?" You blurt out. "Who's going to have my immortality? You, Baines? What about daughter mine? Or mother mine? How is father mine going to survive?"

"We need not but Son of Mine to survive." Father Mine informs you. "He will take your essence."

"And the rest of you will die?" You say, and try to cross your arms- except you can't. "How long do you think the essence will last if you share it between the four of you? Not as long as two Time Lords, I'm guessing. Sharing two Timey-Wimeys between four of you dudes are much better odds."

"She is merely buying time!" Mother Mine hisses. "We will take-"

Baines- Son Mine- tilts his head, watching you with an amused expression, thinking. "No," He says, slowly. "She is quite right, Mother of Mine."

"Do you _have_ to call each other that?" You make a face, but in all reality your heart is thumping. _Please take the bait, please take the bait-_ "Can't you be called, like, Bob and Bobetta or something? Or Jimmy?"

They, as always, ignore you. 

"Two Time Lords will be better as a prize. We have the other one almost trapped, unable to come out; we will be able to get him easily enough."

_Yes, yes, YES!_

"What of the girl?" Father Mine says, and his head swivels towards you; "I say we take her essence first. I strive for immortality."

"No!" Son Mine says sharply, and turns to you; "We will wait. Until the other Time Lord comes. Sister of Mine tells me that the Doctor cares deeply for this one; we will use her to lure him in, and take them both."

Bingo. She's taken the bait.

It seems as though hours has passed as you wait, trying to devise a plan; they've taken your sonic, which means you can't get out of these cuffs, and you must have dropped your lockpick when putting your clothes on. So you just sit there, waiting, _helpless,_ as the family of Blood scream with glee and destroy the town below.

You feel absolutely, incredibly, _useless._ Nothing before, nothing after. You seem to be perfectly unable to do anything in situations like this, and you know the fact- the Doctor is much better at dealing with cases like these. You're more like his assistant that just helps him out when you're lucky, once in a while. If he was here, he would have saved the whole village and town in one hour, max. It's taking you much more than that; and worse is the fact that you can't even _save_ anyone. Not even Mister Rocastle, who had been there, _right_ in front of you. All you'd managed to do was to aggravate them more, spur them on a spree to destroy the whole place, and encourage them to kill the Doctor.

Useless, that's what you are.

"The Doctor will come out!" You can hear them saying, once in a while. "He cannot stand the suffering of others!"

Yet he doesn't. You start to wonder whether anything has gone wrong, whether John Smith is refusing to open the watch for some reason, whether your calculations had been off and Tim Latimer would not go to them, instead choosing, for whatsoever reason, to keep the watch for himself.

And this- you hate _this_ the most. You being helpless, you being alone, you not being able to do anything, you being forced to sit tight while you just... wait.

Too long, you think, has passed. The family of Blood are beginning to look uneasy, and they seem to be blaming you for it; you know for a fact that the Doctor and Son Mine is the only ones standing in the way of you getting killed this moment; he seems to agree with whatever you've said, for some reason. Probably wants more immortality.

You stand up, the chain links grinding against the pipes nastily, and give your body a little shake; if you're not going to do anything, might as well look for anything you can. Your fingers wind into your fingerless gloves and you look for the lockpick that you'd hidden there, before. Searching the left one.... the right one... as discreetly as you can, you turn sideways and manage to worm a hand into your pocket, searching the left one first, and then _there!_

In your right pocket, a bobby pin. You have no idea how that got there or what you were doing with a bobby pin (hey, living with the Doctor means you make use of weird stuff all the time) but you take it without question, twisting it into your dominant hand to slip it into the lock.

You've gotten it nearly open- it requires one simple twist- when you feel the bobby pin slip from your grip and clatter to the floor.

Oh, damn.

You wince ever so slightly as the family of Blood stop the carnage on the village and immediately turn, back towards you; sniffing the air. Stupid movie cliche- managing to drop your bobby pin and all that.

Also a rookie mistake.

You bite your lip as one of them nears you, a look in their eyes; "Check her restraints, Father of Mine."

Oh, no they don't. You hide your hands behind your back, backing all the way into the pipes, when the spaceship door whizzes, and slowly grinds to an open; you watch with wide eyes as the Doctor walks through.

_"Doctor!"_ You cry, eyes wide.

He fails to acknowledge you, though, for some reason- your mouth parts, and you know you _have_ to get out of those restraints but you can't-

"Just-" He says, and you frown, something is wrong, he doesn't say things like that- "Just stop the bombardment. That's all I'm asking. I'll do anything you want, just- just _stop_."

Baines' lips curl up into a smirk. "Say please."

"Please."

"Wait a minute." Mother mine sniffs, and her eyes narrow, looking at the Doctor suspiciously- "Still human."

_What?_ What was he _thinking,_ coming like this? You know you have to get him out, before he does anything stupid, you need something flat and narrow, just a sharp twist and the lock will break-

"Now I can't-" His eyes flicker towards you- "I can't pretend to understand, not for a _second_ , but I want you to know I'm innocent in all this. He made me John Smith. It's not like I had any control over it."

"He didn't just make himself human. He made himself an idiot." Mother mine remarks. You think, think, _think-_ what is best for-

Oh!

Your finger comes up to the cuffs and you insert a nail. This is going to hurt.

"I don't care about this Doctor and your family. I just want you to go. So I've made my choice. You can have him." His voice shakes, and you stop, feeling your eyes widening- so the Doctor had no plan. This is it.

You're going to die.

"Just take it, please! Take him away." You hear John plead, holding out the watch, and a sensation of anger flares up in your chest. That stupid John Smith- who _is_ he to do this? Why?

You need to save this. Bracing yourself, catching your breath in your throat, you squeeze your eyes shut and turn your nail, violently, with as much force as you can.

_Crack._

You bite back a yelp of pain as your fingernail gets twisted violently, but it works. The restraints release, and you remove them as well as you can without clanking, still putting up the mime that you're cuffed. If you can take them by surprise-

"Don't think that saved your life." Son Mine says, and he throws the Doctor- no, John Smith- to the side. He staggers and falls back against the wall, green switches lighting up on his trail, and something astounding happens;

He winks.

He.... winks.

Your eyes widen but you try to seem as nonchalant as you can. What's wrong? What does that mean? Is the Doctor back, or was that just a simple glitch of the eye?

"Family of Mine, now we shall have the lives of a Time Lord." Son Mine says, and glancing back at you, brings the watch to his face exaggeratedly; you watch with horror as he gathers the family around him.

What do you _do?_ Do you try to tackle him, take up chances four to one? But what was that _wink?_ What is that supposed to mean? Was that just accidental or was that on purpose? What do you _do, damn it?_ You're too confused, one decision could take things wrong or right, but _which decision!?_

You look towards the Doctor, ever so slightly, and his eyes flicker to you, and then away to the door; _run!_

Please, hope your instincts are right.

You pray to god as you set down the cuffs as quietly as possible, removing your wrists from around them, and wrap them around each other, still keeping your hands behind your back.

Son of Mine flicks open the watch- and nothing.

They sniff deeply, and yet still: nothing.

"It's empty!" He snarls.

"Where-" John Smith's eyes move frantically around- "Where's it gone?"

Son Mine glares at you, and turns to the Doctor, "You tell me." With a furious snarl, he throws the watch towards John Smith- who catches it perfectly without so much as a look, and _he's back-_

He's the Doctor.

Your Doctor's back.

"Oh, I think the explanation might be you've been fooled by a simple olfactory misdirection. Little bit like ventriloquism of the nose." He says, grinning, and you've never been happier in your life, at the geeky _mess_ in front of you, how he's smirking like he knows he's the best. "It's an elementary trick in certain parts of the galaxy."

The family of Blood watch, transfixed, and so do you- them, in surprise, and you, in wonder. That your Doctor is back, finally.

Oh, god. It had seemed like a nightmare, for so long, but not anymore.

"But it has got to be said, I don't like the looks of that hydroconometer." He gestures to the buttons that he'd pressed- you'd thought they were all an accident, but apparently not- but then again, that's the Doctor to you. "It seems to be indicating you've got energy feedback all the way through the retrostabilisers feeding back into the primary heat converters." Nearing you, he taps the pipes that you'd been leaning on a few seconds ago, but his eyes turn to you and he gives you a wink, his hand closing around yours quickly and silently.

"Because if there's one thing you shouldn't have done, you shouldn't have let me press all those buttons."

Retrostabilisers... hydroconometer... and those buttons... you piece together the pieces and resist the urge to laugh out loud- _brilliant!_ If you don't die, of course.

"But, in fairness," He says, and he nears the doors, pulling you along with him; "I will give you one word of advice."

"Run."

In sync to his word, alarms and red lights begin to flash- but even in all of that, you can't help but let out a laugh as he pulls you out, the two of you running as fast as you can, away from the ship; "What were you _thinking!?_ " The Doctor yells.

"Buying you time!"

"You could have been _killed!_ "

To which you respond with: "Well, it worked, didn't it?"

He opens his mouth and closes it, gaping at you like a fish out of water, and responds with a muttering: "Women."

Behind you, the heat of the explosion sears your back, singes your hair, and sets a corner of your coat on fire, but you couldn't care less- because your Doctor was back, and he loved you again.

* * *

You're petrified, at what you'd heard, what had come out of your lover's mouth then, back then, at the cottage.

You can't believe it- you absolutely refuse to.

After so long... after _seven hundred years_ of being together... he'd throw it away, just like that? He'd just... not _care_ about you? He'd leave you, leave you for someone he loved in a different persona, leave you for Joan Redfern?

It didn't matter that she'd refused, that after the Doctor had left you'd seen her clutching the journal to her chest and crying. It honestly didn't matter that he'd still taken your hand with the same affection, that he'd made that same expression you were so used to, the one he wore when he was covering up pain. It didn't matter.

It mattered that he did it. That he was willing to give it another go, that he'd said _please_ to her, that he'd told her that _he didn't want her to go._ It mattered that he could say those words, still, even when you'd been there, even when you'd almost gotten yourself killed for the sake of the village.

_"Come with me." He'd said, and you'd covered your mouth with your hands, unable to believe what you were hearing. Because it couldn't be, right? Because he'd leave her, because he no longer liked her. That was the John Smith part of him speaking._

_You could hear the surprise in Joan's voice as she said, "I'm sorry?"_

_"Travel with me. As my companion."_

_Why? You couldn't_ understand. _Was he not_ _content with you anymore? Did he truly like her, or was he saying that, just as a man who wanted more friends?_

_But his next words disproved it. Disproved everything._

_"No. We could start again. I'd like that. You and me. We could try, at least. Because everything that John Smith is and was, I'm capable of that, too._ _"_

_He'd_ like _that._

_He'd want that. He would just... just... throw you away, for someone that he'd liked when he was a human._

_God... did you not_ matter _to him anymore?_

_Not only that, you remembered Martha's eyes. Those sad, wistful, jealous eyes... as if to say,_ I loved him too.

_How many more? How many after?_

_"Please come with me." He'd said, and you could listen no more, you just_ couldn't- 

_You'd run away before you could hear more._

Eyes unfocused, you lean against the TARDIS and cross your arms as you stare off into the distance. No point thinking about the past now, isn't it? Being a time traveler had taught you that, especially.

You shuffle and your hands come back down, down to stuff them into your pockets, and you look down at the slightly damp grass. There are unpleasant squelching sounds every time you step, but you don't mind that, you don't at all- in fact, if you'd have to say, it fits quite well with the mood.

There is the sound of footsteps on the grass, and you look up to see the face that you'd least wanted to: the Doctor.

"Right then." He says, and his eyes wander over to you; "Molto bene."

Martha's eyes glance at you, apologetically, and you hear her say, "How was she?" But you can't concentrate on that.

He comes to your side and you can't help it- is this the man you knew in Gallifrey, who swore you were the only one for him, the one who promised that he'd stay forever?- you flinch away from him, just a fraction of a second.

"Doctor. Martha." Says a voice, and you look up at the sound of your name, startled. "(Y/N)."

It's Tim Latimer.

Oh, this boy. You remember it, you remember it all; the trip, when you'd met Jack, when you'd met Tim, when he'd given you advice about coming. You remember it all- your past, but his future.

"Tim Timothy Timber." The Doctor says- you remember you called him Timmy.

"I just wanted to say goodbye. And thank you." Tim adds. "Because I've seen the future and I now know what must be done. It's coming, isn't it? The biggest war ever."

Martha seems uncomfortable, with the notion of a small boy like this, fighting. "You don't have to fight."

"I think we do."

"But you could get hurt."

"Well, so could you, travelling around with him," He points out, "But it's not going to stop you."

There is a silence. You feel as though you should laugh- to do _anything-_ but you find yourself rooted in place. Unable to look away, as Tim moves, turning your back on the three of them.

Oh, and you know what to do. _You get it._

"It's a paradox." You whisper. "It was me."

Eyes wide, you reach into the Doctor's hand- "hey!"- to grab the watch from his grasp, rushing towards Tim. Catching up to him, you call out, "Timmy boy!"

He stops and turns around, obviously a bit confused; "(Y/N)." He acknowledges you, and you want to laugh out loud- this little kid, becoming that brave man from so long ago. This little kid who would one day save Winston Churchill's life.

"Timmy boy." You say, leaning down, and holds out the watch to him; "I'd be honoured if you'd have this. It's just a normal watch."

Tim glances up at you and you still can't believe it. His eyes, so innocent, unaware of what's going to happen soon, unaware of the time and the war that's going to turn him into that guy you'd known first. "Thank you-"

"And," You add, "A few instructions."

Oh, he's _brilliant._ You could hug him, right now.

"What is it?"

"Listen. When you become older, one day, there will be a very _special_ day, when you're patrolling the perimeters of the headquarters of London, where Winston Churchill will be. And that day, I'll be there too."

He nods.

"That'll be me from the past, so me before I ever met you. I'll be wearing a french dress- never mind where that came from- and the guy will introduce himself as Jack Harkness. And you'll find a time- you'll know when it's right- to give me the watch, and tell me these exact words." Leaning closer, you whisper in his ear, "Perfect place to hide, if you're keeping out of sight."

Tim looks confused, but doesn't question your orders- merely nods. "I'll make sure of that."

"Thanks." You grin, and leaning down, kiss his forehead, hugging him. "And good luck, Tim."

He turns back and you grin, turning on your heel back towards the TARDIS, where the Doctor is waiting for you, Martha already inside.

"What was that about?"

You know you should be mad, but there's nothing that comes _out_ of being mad, is there?

Just once. You can forgive him, just one time.

"Nothing." You say. "I'm just glad you're back."

Reaching up, you give him a deep kiss, just to confirm your feelings- just in case.

"Well then," The Doctor says, his fingers closing around yours; "Allons-y!"

"Molto bene." You tell him, and decide that, even just for a second, it _is_ good.


	23. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Came back after a long hiatus. Molto Bene!

_"You go, and that's an_ order, _soldier._ "

“ _Soldier. No name. Just the soldier. The best soldier._ ”

_"Come back? To the war? Are you crazy? What kind of selfless idiot would I be?"_

_“You would. If you had another choice, you would. You like it. You like the idea of being star-crossed lovers, being the hero, being the best out of all of us. You’re a psychopath.”_

_“Get away from me. Fucking get_ AWAY FROM ME! _”_

_"I'm not as clean as you think, sweetie. You see these hands? They're not just hands of a mechanic. They're also hands of a killer, of a bloodstained murderer who killed and her only justification was 'because she was ordered to'."_

_“You look up to me? Well, here’s some advice, kid. Don’t.”_

_"The Doctor would be dead if you weren't there. You're his leash, a way of keeping him contained. Take you away and he's a rabid animal."_

_“They’re right. About you two. You’re his bitch and he’s your soldier. He’d kill for you, you know. He’d kill the world for you, and when he does that, all you’re going to do is thank him and bring him back to bed with a nice little kiss.”_

_"I'm nothing more! Nothing more, than just 'the Doctor's love', 'the Doctor's leash', 'the Doctor's companion', 'the Doctor's fiance'. Why can't I be anything more? Why does everything have to concern the Doctor? Do I even have another life outside of his? Why do people associate me with the Doctor, always, when what I want to be is myself?"_

_"You have no right. You have no fucking right to say ANYTHING TO ME. Have you ever slept at five o'clock after you've had six sleeping pills, the face of your dead friends branded into your mind? Have you ever had nightmares where you were trapped in the deadliest war of the universe?"_

_"Why'd you come? No one in their right minds would want to fight a war, right? Most people here were enlisted by Rassilon, but not you. Why'd you sign your own death warrant?"_

_“See? I told you. Psy-cho. That’s what you fucking are. A psychopath and a whore._ His _whore._ ”

_"I wanted to find my fiance. I'm not going to just sit around, wait for him for four hundred years until he returns to me like some lost prince. I'm going to get there, I'm going to find him, and I'm going to kiss the hell out of him."_

_"You're a good soldier."_

_"You mean I'm a bloody one, one that manages to sleep after she's slaughtered MILLIONS!"_

_"Fuck you! I never ASKED to be kept alive! I never WANTED to be left with the guilt of surviving when hundreds, thousands had died!"_

_"Those Daleks? I'm going to fucking KILL them. They killed my species, my planet... I will find them, one day,_ any _Dalek alive, and I will fucking exterminate them. Just like they did to us._ "

_"Bodies... so many bodies- piled up, like- like a tower. All dead. All innocent. All because of me."_

_"When did you become this? When did you make yourself into this MONSTER?"_

_"You think I've never been there? You truly think I haven't been there, on the edge of the balcony, looking down five stories below, trying running away from life? You think I've never held a gun to my head, the very item I loathe the most, just because I couldn't stand another day of nightmares, of being alone, of being haunted with the knowledge that there's me and only me? You think I'm so HAPPY, huh!?"_

_"Please... please- PLEASE- have mercy- I see your eyes, you know how it feels to leave your children behind-"_

_"SHUT UP! SHUT UP, ALL OF YOU!"_

_Bang._

NO!

You let out a huge gasp of air and jolt up from your bed, the images still branded into your mind. Your hands are shaking and instinctively wrapped around your throat, your eyes squeezed shut, the blankets too thin.

Letting your eyelids flutter open, you let out a deep, shaky breath.

You're safe.

You're safe, and you're fine, and you're going to be all right. Shivering ever so slightly, you wrap your arms around your legs and lean your head against your knees, rocking back and forth on the bed.

Out of the war. You're safe, you're here, the Doctor's here... You're not alone.

Stifling a sob, you tighten your arms around yourself and let yourself wallow in the darkness, thinking of everything that's happened. France... and then Jack Harkness... and then everything had happened... and then there was the Doctor. The Doctor had been there. In the Berlin Wall, they'd met, and then they'd kissed.

They hadn't been in another war. Not this time. They were all right.

They're still all right.

Clenching your quaking hands into fists, you glance sideways, at the form of a sleeping Doctor. He's usually not like this, always expression emotion. For him to be so calm is so.... calm.

It doesn't matter, though. You've memorized every aspect of him, all through his regeneratiosn. The first one you'd met had adored kissing your cheek. The eighth incarnation enjoyed kissing your head. This one- the tenth- adores holding your hand and cupping his hands around your face.

Your lips pressed into a thin line, your eyes drift over him, to his unconscious form, and your fingers creep over the mattress to brush his hair away from his face.

The ex-soldier. Two ex-soldiers, and you're both alive.

You've got nothing to worry about. See?

Repeating that same sentence over and over again under your breath, you step out of the bed and reach down to collect your clothes, putting them on one by one, and when you're done, you back out of your room to pad through the corridors. Although you know the TARDIS has an automatic heating system you can't help but shiver at the cool night air, dressed in nothing but a nightgown.

That rhyme is still in your head, the rhyme your squadron made up to mock you back in Gallifrey. After hundreds of years, it's still there.

_There once was a man from Gallifrey_

_Who traveled the world and the galaxy_

_His wife was a whore_

_And he was a bore_

_So they were perfect for brutality_

Bloodthirsty. They'd called you that. Now they're all dead.

Shaking the thoughts from your head, you step into the main control room. Thousands of memories are here, too. Too many, you'd think.

You'd traveled with him since forever. You'd _loved_ him since forever. You know you're not supposed to, so why are you doubting it?

It doesn't help that every time the face of Joan Redfern and John Smith, kissing, flashes through your mind; not to mention that expression Martha had made. And god knows what else. How many female companions had he traveled with?

Do you really _matter_ anymore?

You're not the same. You're not. You don't think you'll ever be the same again. Not ever, since you saw your man with someone that isn't you.

Struck by thoughts, you collapse onto the couches of the main control and cradle yourself, feeling absolutely _alone._ Is this it? Does the ex-soldier of a thousand years finally have something that brings her down? Her own _lover?_

He will be the death of you. You swear, he will be the death of you. Yet you keep returning, you keep forgiving him, you keep thinking what he's doing is right because you can't bear to argue with him. When you argue with people, they leave, and you don't want him to leave.

Oh, god. You don't want him to leave. You're nothing without him.

With shaking hands, you reach out and flip a few switches onto the TARDIS. He's not going to leave you, but there is a paranoia buried deep inside of you, whispering doubts and keeping that image burned in the back of your eyelids, that image of him _kissing her._

Reaching under the seats, you look for the blanket you always fold down there in case you get cold and snag the end of it, pulling it out and spreading it over you. You're just about to your thoughts are interrupted by the ringing of a phone.

By _your_ phone.

Your mouth parted slightly- who has this number?- you accept the call. Great. This is exactly what you need right now. A female companion he's left behind, young and beautiful, calling about how he is.

"What do you want?" You snap, a bit harshly. "State your name, current year, intention, and history of violence."

"Who is this?" Asks a strangely familiar voice. Male human. Oh, so now he's going around seducing _males,_ too. Great. Next thing you know, he'll go for the aliens. "I'm looking for the Doctor."

The Doctor. Of course. "This is his wife. Can I give him a message?"

"His wife?" He pauses. Is this guy being chased or what? "Oh. Wait- unless I'm mistaken... are you (Y/N) (L/N)?"

"Yes." You agree, slightly angrily. "Name?"

"Captain Jack Harkness."

Captain Jack Harkness? _Captain Jack Harkness?_

Peter Pan?

"Jack!" You gasp, into the phone. Your delight is too much to hide. "Harkness, what are you _doing?"_ Your eyes are wide with amazement and you can't help but grin. An old friend.

Maybe that's all you need.

"Uhm..." There's a slight pause, and then: "It's hard to explain. Anyways, listen, I haven't got much time-" He says, pausing to catch a deep breath, and then with a barely audible cry takes off running again, making sure to spit a date into the phone. "Can you come to Roald Dahl's pass on this day?"

"Oh." You tilt your head, propping your chin up on your hand to get a more comfortable view. "OK... but hang on, how do you know the TARDIS hotline anyways? Only about ten people know this number."

"Rose gave it to me."

"Who's Rose?"

Your glee seems to vaporize right in front of your eyes. Your heart lurches and your mouth tastes acidic, fear and anxiety and paranoia bubbling in your stomach. _Rose?_ Another female companion? Another girlfriend? Another one he unwillingly let go of?

Another replacement of you?

At this point, _w_ _hat's the difference between you and them?_

You liked it better when it was just the two of you, against the world. Just that. "Never mind." Jack covers up, but you can't help but think. A replacement. _Rose._ Pretty, like the flower. Someone he'd be fond with, not someone like you. Someone brand new.

"Like the flower." You say, and it seems as though your brief positive energy has been drained again. _Rose._ Like the flower. Not like you.

"Exactly like the flower." Jack comments. "Anyways, I'll see you at Roald's Dahl pass."

You rub your face with one hand, running it along the ridges and bumps; there's no point in asking, even if the Doctor does get up. "Sure. It's a date."

"What's a date? You're not going somewhere without me, are you?"

Your heart skips a beat and you hang up on the still-talking phone to stuff it in the folds of your nightgown, turning to see the Doctor, dressed in a loose dress shirt and suit trousers, standing on the doorsill. His hands are stuffed into his pockets like he always does and he looks the same as ever-

It's just that... well, you can't seem to face him.

"Nothing." You murmur, turning back around. "Just... a friend."

He loves you. You love him. It's perfect. So _what the hell is the problem?!_

You can hear him making his way towards you, leisurely. The metal grates clatter against his hastily dressed shoes and a second later, something lands on top of you; his suit jacket. "You all right?"

He knows. He always knows when you have a nightmare, because he knows all your habits; how you walk out mindlessly in the middle of the night, how you adjust the temperature up so much it _chokes_ you. How you can't face anyone. He knows you better than anyone, and you know that. He knows you better because he _loves_ you.

You just lack belief in it.

Turning to him, you reach over to bury your face in his chest, his arms wrapping around you. No explanation needed, just a soft kiss on your forehead and his hand rubbing circles into your back.

"'M fine." You mumble, into his chest. "I'm... I'm fine...."

"Tell me." He says, quietly. The quiet Doctor. Something entire _armies_ would run against, but something that you feel comfort in, because it means he's willing to listen to you. It means he'll drop the jokes and concentrate on you and you only. A privilege no one but you ever had, and you'd whined about it.

Your fists clutch handfuls of his dress shirt. "Don't leave me. I'm so sorry, just don't-" A flash, of him staring at the woman with so much love again; _come with me, we can work it out._ "I'll do anything. Just don't leave me." The words spill out of you. "Oh, god, please don't. I'll do whatever you want. Just don't leave."

Tears are streaming down your cheeks now, your face buried into the crook of his neck and your arms wrapped around his neck as he's cradled you onto his lap, his arms around you like a fortress. "(Y/N), I-"

His collar is wet from your tears but he doesn't seem to care. You don't care, either, and you frantically try to take in air that doesn't seem to be quite enough. His hands run over you, softly, and you love it but you're _so scared you're going to lose him._ "Tell me again. _Please._ Tell me you're not going to- tell me you won't-" Your throat is choked by the sobs building up and you stifle them, your arms tightening around him and holding him like he's the only thing in the whole world. The panic. You can't deal with it. "Tell me you-"

"Shh." The Doctor says, and his hands come up to cup your face gently, thumbs brushing away the tears, his voice low and soothing. "Shh. It's all right. I'm sorry."

"It's _not_ all right." You want to snap, but it comes out as more of a whisper, breaths against his ear. The form you've grown to love for so long. "You're going to leave. Don't leave. Just don't die."

He tilts his face up, and you can feel his eyes on yours, but you can't meet his eyes. You can't meet anyone's eyes. You're supposed to act so confident, so happy as the Doctor's lover but _no one thinks you're like this but you're so paranoid and the thoughts are eating you up inside and-_ "Oh, (Y/N) (L/N)." He says, in a voice too quiet. "I should never have let you follow me into the war. I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry."

You can't hear him, though. You can't hear anything save for the promises he'd made to you centuries ago. Still echoing in your head, along with the screams of the battlefield, and your head pounding with a headache as you search for your lover. "Promise me you won't leave, Doctor."

His mouth breathes a sigh against you, and he presses a kiss against your forehead, his rough fingers taking your face to meet your eyes with his, and without breaking eye contact, he promises.

"I won't leave." He says, softly. "I won't leave and I won't change. I will love you and only you, forever. I promise. I promise you, (Y/N) (L/N). I will never leave you."

When he's finished all his words, the Doctor reaches forwards to connect his lips to yours, gently, calming you. Your eyes flutter closed and you concentrate.

He promised. He always keeps his promises.

He's not going to leave you.

"I'm fine." You whisper, as he rocks you back and forth. "I'm OK..."

He knows you're not, but he holds you anyway.


	24. Doubts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh lol didn't mean for this to be dark like dat  
> becuz i'm sorry abt having a hiatus  
> two chapters in two days!!!  
> dammm i'm good  
> which is wut the doctor said  
> and why am I misspelling everything??? I usually hate text message language  
> i love torchwood  
> ianto is cute  
> aaaaand I'm ranting again

"Do you _have_ to put your foot up on the console all the time?" You criticize, hanging onto the TARDIS with a grunt as it shakes violently, sparks flying into your hair. "You know she hates it when you do that. She keeps telling _me_ because you won't listen."

"Oh, it can't be that bad." 

"It _is_ that bad. I'm telling you, ginger, she doesn't like it. How would _you_ enjoy my foot on your face?"

"Depending on the situation..." The Doctor takes an appreciative look at you, smoothing down a cowlick, and promptly falls over. "Sometimes good, sometimes..." He makes a face. "I get your point. Sorry."

"Can you two sto _flirting?"_ Martha patronizes as the TARDIS comes to a shuddering stop. "We're at the end of the universe and that's all you want to talk about. Some kind of... foot fetish."

You snort. "He doesn't have a foot fetish. I would know."

"Oh, _gross._ "

"Oh, both of you shut up." The Doctor interrupts your banter. "We've landed."

Landed. In the end of time. It takes all the reality out and crushes it into a giant blender, doesn't it? The strangest things happen while with the Doctor. But they're new things, things you would have never known as a peaceful settler of Gallifrey, and you don't necessarily dislike them. New adventures. Privileges.

"What's out there?" Martha questions. To your surprise, you don't know.

Seven hundred years of knowledge, and you simply _don't know._

"Not even the Time Lords came this far." You echo, and exchange glances with the Doctor. Worried glances. Because, to hell with all of this; curiousity killed the cat.

As if voicing exactly what the two of you think, the Doctor sets his jaw and seems to lose himself in thought. "We should leave." He decides, after a long while. "We should go. We should really, _really_ go."

A silence.

And then-

To hell with it. You punch his arm with a grin and slip on your trench coat, rushing over to the door.

Martha rushes out first, and you're just about to follow when the Doctor's hand stops you, his arm firm against yours. You turn, questioningly. "What?"

"LIsten, (Y/N)." He says, in that quiet tone that always suggests he's fine when he's not, "You alright? From... yesterday..."

_Alright._ Yes, you are. At least, that's what you have to believe. Because if you're not alright, you're better off dead. _Alright_ is the only thing keeping you going. 

You turn to leave, but his arm is still insistent on yours, his dark brown eyes staring at you. It'd always been that way. He'd always had blue or brown, and you'd always had green and grey. You'd never questioned it. It'd just been the way of things.

But now you look at him, and youc an't help but think... _why?_ Time Lord regenerations are a mess. Scrambling up any and every possibility. Mixing up whatever colors there are. But why are his eyes always blue or brown? Why are your eyes always green or grey? Why can't you remember any other colour?

Tearing away from him with a slightly parted mouth, you just give him a good look before nodding and turning to exit the TARDIS. Martha Jones is crouching on the ground, over a strangely familiar man. 

_Hang on a minute._ You'd thought you'd lost him. Is that...

Martha seems horrified by something, and looking up, rushes away without so much as a word. That's when you kneel down, turning his face over to take a look. You're right- it's Jack Harkness.

But there's something different about him, something you didn't quite sense the last time. The instinct in your gut is telling you he can't be here. He can't be anywhere. He's _strange._ Perfectly normal, but strange nontheless. You reach down, feel for a pulse, feel nothing. You should be scared, worried, horrified. He's dead.

So why do you feel perfectly calm?

You look up at the Doctor, who mumbles something under his breath, but you're more concentrated on the matter at hand. "Doctor, this man. He...." Searching for the right word. "He feels..."

"Off." He completes. "Time Lord instincts. Something's not right with him, in a linear sense."

You frown, and the words seem to automatically pop into your mouth- "He shouldn't be dead." You say, although you have no idea why. "I don't know. He shouldn't be. He's not."

The Doctor turns to you, opens his mouth to say something- and the door bursts open, Martha plowing through.

"Here we go. Get out of the way." She shoos you away and you step back a bit, along with your fiance. "It's a bit odd, though. Not very hundred trillion. That coat's more like World War Two."

World War Two? So he'd taken a huge leap from there. You look down at him, lost in thought; Jack Harkness. Something is _definitely_ wrong. A huge gap in the time-space continuum that shouldn't... well, that shouldn't be continued. Time Lord instincts, screaming at you to leave him, to run away from him.

"Doctor." You call out, slowly, interrupting him and Martha. "Do you know this guy?"

"A friend of mine. Used to travel with me in the old days." He frowns. "Come to think of it. He was the one who told me about you. When I was still looking for you. Long ago."

He knows you. He knows the Doctor.

He was the bridge.

"But-" Martha opens her mouth, closes it again. "I'm sorry. He's dead."

No pulse. Of course she'd think that. She doesn't have that sense of dread hanging over her like you do. "No, he's not." You say, softly. "He's definitely not. Just give it a minute."

She looks up at you and shakes her head but you step away nontheless- he'll come up. Your instincts are never wrong.

"He's-" She starts, but that's when he sits up, gasping. He's alive.

That's not right. That's not right at all. Dead, he's not right, but alive, even more so. What- what's wrong with him? Something is up and you can't shake that feeling.

"Captain Jack Harkness. And who are you?" You snap back as he throws you a glance, turning to Martha. 

"M- Martha Jones." Flustered. He had that same effect on you, at first. Not now. Now it's... strange.

"Nice to meet you, Martha Jones." He says, in that _flirtatious_ voice. Instinctively, you and the Doctor say in unison: "Oh, don't _start._ " So he _has_ met Jack before.

He gives you a laugh. "I was only saying hello." He stumbles up, brushing himself off, and immediately turns to face you- arms spread wide, he yells, "(Y/N)!"

"Peter Pan!" You yell back, and in two bounds he takes you into his arms and hugs you tight, the hug of an old friend. He lifts you off your feet and you laugh as he lets go of you, his hands on your shoulders, scanning you down. "(Y/N)! You got my instructions straight!"

"Can't say the same for you." You joke, and ecstatic, take his face in your hands to press a kiss to his cheek. "How's Tim and Winnie?"

"Fine. Tim said something about going home for the holidays and that was the last I saw of him." He notifies, giving you another tight hug. You laugh, patting his shoulder, and he turns to the Doctor.

"Doctor." He says, much more formally.

The Doctor fails to respond; when you give him a pointed look, he seems to be scowling, not very pleasantly. You give him a glare and he hums, responding with a displeased "Jack."

"Good to see you."

Your fiance throws you a glance, and with an uncharacteristic scowl, responds, "And you. Same as ever. Although," He adds, begrudgingly giving him a scan-down; "Have you had work done?"

You're just about to step forwards to protest against his behavior when the Doctor's arm curls around your waist and pulls you back, flush against his side, your back pressed against his chest; his hand grips you tightly and you wonder, _why?_

Why is he doing this? Pettiness? How did the two of them meet? By the not-very-happy look on his face, you'd guess not very well. Bad impression? You give Jack a scan-over. You know the Doctor, and you know Jack; you know the fact that the Doctor isn't like this to anyone, especially not to any of his companions.

And then- _"Rose Tyler."_

Rose. Rose. Rose.

Who the _bloody hell is Rose?_

Your eyes drift over to Jack, and you mouth: _Who's Rose?_ But he just gives you an apologetic glance.

_Rose Tyler._ You can't ever mistake that. That look on the Doctor's face, it's something you've seen too much before.

So _who the hell is Rose Tyler?_

* * *

Your face in a scowl, you pull him into the corridor. The refugees' eyes are on you, some of them looking on with interest that they will be able to catch a scene, but you don't care; you push the Doctor, looking mildly surprised,against the wall, a hand on your hip pointedly as you open your mouth to talk.

"Right." You say, finally. "What's wrong?"

"What?" He says, distractedly, and turns to look over your shoulder. "Internal mechanics... thing. I've got to go." He squirms, looking down at you awkwardly.

"Oi, ginger." A scowl on your face, you grab his tie to pull him forwards so that his face is jolted forwards, dangerously close to yours. "Concentrate on me, thank you very much."

He looks at you, eyes wide. "What?"

_"Concentrate!"_ You punch him in the chest. "What's going _on_ with you two? End of the universe and you're acting all... _petty._ "

"Petty? Me? Nah."

"No, stop." Shaking your head, you let go of his tie and lean your weight on your hand, placing it against the wall. "You and Harkness. Something's up with you. He's acting fine but you're not, so obviously not past encounters. What're you doing that for?" He looks awa, again, towards Martha. "Doctor!"

"Why does it _matter?"_ He complains, finally. "It's nothing! Just something between the two of us."

"It _matters_ because you're my fiance and he's one of my best friends!" You throw your hands up exaggeratedly, turning your back on him. "Why do you _think_ it matters? Now _tell_ me what's happening!"

He takes his glasses off his face, giving them a wipe. "Nothing much. I told you. Something between the two of us and the two of us only."

"We don't keep secrets." You point out, angrily. "Especially not between my _lover_ and my _friend._ For fuck's sake, Doctor. What's wrong with him, anyway? How do you even _know_ him?"

"We met on travel. It was before, when I was in another form. With another companion."

_Another companion._ What? "You mean _Rose Tyler?"_ You blurt out, angrily.

The Doctor's eyes widen, snapping towards you; "What?" He asks. "What did you just say?"

You shake your head. You don't think you've ever seen him so demanding towards you, _never._ Not since the incident with Lazarus when he'd told you to stay safe. "Nothing." You say, swallowing down your dread. "Nothing, I really didn't."

"No, you said something." He says, his eyes- his eyes _panicked._ "What did you say? Who told you?"

"Nothing." You say, turning, your arms encircling your stomach. You can sense him behind you, coming closer, but you push him away with one hand, hugging yourself tightly. "Answer my questions first or I'm not telling you a thing."

He calls after you. "(Y/N), there's a time and a place. Don't be-"

"Petty? _Petty?_ I'm the one who's petty? _Tell me_ about you and Jack, if you're so concerned about petty!" You snap back, fully aware of the eyes on you. And that one extra pair, the one that belongs to the man you love. "Why won't you tell me? About you, and Jack, and about all your other companions- Why don't you tell me _anything?"_

"I tell you _everything._ You're my girlfriend."

"Oh, obviously. And apparently, so is Jack." He's not telling you something and you don't like it.

"I'm going with Jack." You say, angrily, when there's no reply. "Do whatever you want."

Turning your back, your eyes blur with tears as you snag the collar of Jack's coat, pulling him along with you. "Come on, Jack. Let's check this place out."

He stumbles, having no choice but to follow you, your grip strong on his coat. "Are you-"

"I'm at the end of the universe, the opportunity of a lifetime. I am _not_ spending half my time crying." Your hand slides down to grab his and you pull him off and away.

Because he's your _friend,_ that's why.


	25. The End

"Chan," The woman next to you offers with a smile and a hand on your shoulder. "Are you alright, tho?"

You turn to look at her. She has an apologetic smile on her face and seems to look at you with concern, her blue face even... well, even bluer than before. Obviously she notices something is up just from your expression.

"Chantho." You greet, turning back around. "Yeah, I'm all right. Just a bit of a headache." A mix between a lie and a truth. Of course you _do_ have a headache; you've had it ever since you've landed in Silo, but you don't really think you're all right. Too many thoughts are crowding your brain, squeezing it together like a vice.

You can't _think-_ think, the one thing that's kept you alive.

"Chan, may I offer you some coffee, tho?"

Coffee. Just the thought of that seems to bang against your skull. You wince and turn back to watch the two men on-screen. "I'm fine. Why don't you go see if the Professor needs any help?"

"Chan, but he does not-"

You rub your forehead. That pounding. It's got to mean something. You have headaches, sure, but it's not as bad most times. This pounding; it feels like your skull's splitting open- you _know_ this means something.

Something locked away, dormant, at the edge of your mind. Something you can't make out.

Something you _must_ know.

Behind you, you hear the _woomph_ of someone collapsing and turn, ignoring the screaming in your head, to look at Professor Yana. He seems, strangely, to be in the same place as you are.

Not only that- something about this Professor Yana- _something-_ bothers you _so much._ Almost as much as Jack did, Jack with his immortality and his need to die. Professor Yana is as bad as that, and that is saying something.

"What's wrong, Yana?" You ask, rushing over. "Migraine? Headache? You're not dying now, are you?" Whipping out your sonic, you lean down to scan him, his whole biology from head to toe. His brainwave patterns. _Something_ must be wrong.

And oh, yes, it is. Your eyes widen as you take a look at the readings, the fluctuating brain patterns, the DNA readings. _"No, no, no, no, no."_ Your eyes wide, panicked. "No, that- that can't. You can't."

This is impossible. This is _bloody impossible._ You shake your head, unable to believe it, and sprint towards the communicators, smashing your thumb down on the button; "Doctor."

No reply. Of course he would. Petty little shit. You'll deal with him later but _now-_ now is the important bit. "Jack!"

"(Y/N)!" He shouts, seemingly out of breath. "We got it working, but right now Professor-"

No, no, no. Not anymore. "Jack, psychic paper. _Now._ "

"What?"

"Open the fucking thing!" You howl. "NOW!"

Chantho is looking at you and the Professor with undecisiveness, but the professor is not paying any attention to you. Why would he? You're not important. Instead he's looking at something, something in his hand, something you can't quite make out.

Jack, on the other line, is speechless. You would be, in the same situation, which you are- you take another look at your sonic, just to make sure. "Did you get my message?" You demand. _"Jack, did you?"_

"I got it!" He stammers. "I got it but... but that's not... We're on our way."

What would you do? What would you do, in his situation, if you were alone, if you were sent this far back. If you had to hide yourself.

_Perfect place to keep out of sight._

It all clicks together.

"No." You whisper. "No." Whipping around. Your sonic, the impossible readings, still clutched in your hand. Professor Yana stands up, his eyes glued onto whatever is in his hand. _What_ is in his hand? What would it be, if you were old and tired and needed to get out? What would you-

No, it couldn't be. You rush over to him, pushing Chantho back, to see exactly what you've dreaded; a fob watch. The exact same fob watch Tim Latimer had given you, all those years ago.

"Listen, Professor Yana." You say, with a laugh. He can't open that. He can't be allowed near it. It's impossible. "Professor, eyes on me. Come on. Utopia. Shall I get you some coffee? Do you want to sit down?"

_No, no, no, no, no._

_Another one of your kind._

Click.

"No!" You shout, and that's when a bullet pierces your left heart.

* * *

"Get it open! _Get it open!_ "

You know that voice. You know that voice. You know that voice. You know that voice. You know that-

"Get it open, Doctor!"

You _know_ it. You know it, better than anyone does.

"JACK!"

That name... and that voice... _those_ voices....

"(Y/N)!"

_And your name._

"(Y/N)! _Are you all right?!_ "

Are you? Are you all right? You can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything. Just like- just like a few minutes ago, you're paralysed and scared and utterly alone.

What had happened? You remember, getting panicked about something, getting panicked about a... a watch and a man, and your friends, and then- and then- and then what had happened?

_What had happened?_

You need to get up. You need to get up, _right now,_ and you need to help your friends. Cautiously, you pull yourself off the ground when you're hindered by a flash of pain, vibrating through your chest. A pinpoint of pain spreading outwards like an oscillation. Something is wrong. You're not supposed to feel this pain.

A gasp being stolen from you, you ignore the ache wracking your body, and your hand reaches the table, using it as a handhold to stand up. When you're on your legs, you look down, one hand on your chest, to feel a red halo of blood drenching your clothes, your coat, your white shirt dripping in scarlet. It's growing wider and wider before your very eyes.

You've been shot.

Your eyes widen but you force yourself not to go into shock. Shock is bad, and you've dealt with worse before, you need to concentrate. For your friends. For everyone on the other side.

A hand pushing at your chest, trying to step the blood flow, you limp over to the door switch and your hand lands on the first one, pushing it down with all your might. You know who did this.

You need to stop him.

_Bang!_

Your head bangs against the wall from the force and you groan in pain, your legs giving out from under you. Looking up to see the Master, standing there, a gun in his hand. Still steaming.

He's shot you in the sternum. Tears drip from your eyes as you _concentrate,_ pawing for a handhold with a free hand, and he watches you with humor. Not him. _Anyone_ but him.

"Poor little Hope." He says, pushing the gun through his waistband, a maniacal grin on his face. "Not so hopeful now, are you?"

_Hope._ No, you can't. You can't bear hearing that again. "Don't." Teeth clenched, you find a loose shelf and your hand tightens on it, pulling yourself further up towards the switch that can save your friends. "Don't you _dare_ call me that."

"Or what? Or you'll _shoot_ me?"

No, _no, no, no._ You can't. The agony of standing up is sending black spots dancing beneath your eyelids. "Or I'll _murder you._ " You seethe. But both of you know. Both of you know it's not the same as before. Both of you know you won't do it, ever again, you won't risk turning into that monster again just so you can have revenge for yourself. You're not that kind of person, and worst of all, he knows that fact, better than _anyone_ in the world.

Maybe, even, better than the Doctor.

"Listen, _Hope."_ He says, bringing his face closer to hers, "I'm just doing what you did to me, all those years ago."

your eyes dark with malice and neverending pain, you shoot him a glare.

"Breaking both your hearts and leaving you for dead."

All you can think, all you can _keep_ thinking is one word: _No._ This can't be. You did wrong to him but you _can't._

An anguished cry coming from you, you grab him by the back of the neck and propel his face straight into the button you'd been aiming for. He cries out and you _know_ you shouldn't but you _feel so good-_ like Hope. Once Hope, always Hope.

The doors buzz and you sink to the floor, hazy with pain. You reach towards the gun, to do _anything,_ but his shoe presses into your hand, digging it into the ground. You cry out weakly as you hear an audible _crack._ Hand bones broken. Coupla ribs, too. Lungs centimeteres away from being punctured. Fingernails cracked and bloody. Gun entry wound at sternum and left heart. You're inches away from regeneration.

Another _bang_ and in wince, expecting golden light to flow from your hands; but instead, you hear the Master gasp and struggle back, into the TARDIS, into _your_ TARDIS.

"Don't you-" You spit out a mouthful of blood, wiping it away with what strength you have left. "Don't you _dare_ go in there."

"I'll do whatever I want." He snarls, Jack's jar clutched to his chest, and disappears- into your home. Your only home.

"You can't." You whisper. Your breath is mingled with golden sparks, buzzing excitedly in the air. A wince of pain and you reach up to press the final button, the door buzzing open. Sounds of struggle are ceased as the Doctor- as your _friends-_ enter. They're safe.

You've done all you can. They're safe.

God, you really liked this body.

There is the grinding of the door, and a scream: _"(Y/N)!"_ You can hear Jack and Martha, both crying out, both _screaming_ , but no Doctor. Where's your Doctor?

You're scared. You don't- you're going to regenerate.

"Doc- Doctor." You whisper. The pain is too much. You can't hold it. A tear slips from your cheek and you curl up, tight, your hands covering your head. You have to hold on.

But when you open your eyes, you're faced with the harsh reality. It's that he's not simply not coming. He's in front of the Master, horrified, but he doesn't notice you.

He doesn't seem to _care_ anymore.

You can feel your hold, slipping. Your hand is glowing with gold light, the disfigured bones pushing back into place, and you whimper, golden light under your eyelids. Golden light everywhere.

It would just be all right if your Doctor was here. But he's not, and you're scared.

"Doctor!" Martha screams. _Doctor._ You need a Doctor. He won't see you now.

You can't call for anyone else. You can't _think._ Blackness is creeping into your vision now, about to engulf you, when someone kneels down next to you.

"Oh, love." A quiet voice. The voice you love.

The voice of your Doctor.

"Doctor." You say, the only word you can remember. Tears stream down your cheeks from the pain and your emotions, the fact that you're _not ready yet._ "It hurts, Doctor."

You force yourself to open your eyes and he's there. Your Doctor, his chocolate brown eyes looking at you in sadness. So much sadness. Someone's screaing but you can't make them out. All you can see is your Doctor.

"Hang on." He says, and you can feel his arms sliding under you, supporting your back and the back of your knees, lifting you straight up in his arms. You squeeze your eyes shut, bury your face in his chest as he heads towards somewhere where you'll be safe. "Don't you dare leave me, (Y/N) (L/N). Not ever again."

"It _hurts._ " You cry, one hand cradled to your chest, the other wrapped around his neck. "Doctor."

"We'll get there." He promises, and you feel his lips against your forehead, kissing you softly; "Hang on, love." Then to Jack: "Hold still! Don't move!"

"What did he _do_ to her?" Martha sounds horrified.

"Martha!" The Doctor shouts. "Martha, grab hold. (Y/N), hold on. Now!"

What is he planning? You have no idea, but you have to trust him. Golden energy is surrounding your head like a halo, playing with your hair. You squeeze your eyes shut and there is a nauseating shift, the ever-so-familiar shift of a vortex manipulator.

You want to throw up. You want to feel better. You don't want this pain, not at all.

"Get out!" The Doctor shouts, and you can feel a jolt as his feet touch down on the ground. "All of you, get back. _Get back!_ "

Why is he telling everyone to get back? You can't think straight anymore, your brain hazy with pain. You can feel yousrelf being lowered, set down on... on grass? And then something... something...

"Doctor-" You gasp. _"Doctor!"_

The Doctor approaches you. "(Y/N), you're regenerating. Hold it off for any longer and you'll-"

"Doctor." You say, and you can feel your grip losing. You're about to regenerate any second now.

But you don't- you don't want to go.

"Doctor." Your voice a bare whisper now. "I love you."

And then, in an instant, your hold is lost.

Light flashes through your eyelids, excruciating pain takes hold of your body, and golden light streams out of you as you regenerate, once more, into a body that will no longer be yours.


	26. A New Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you like the new (Y/N) so far? She's the 8th for those who don't remember

You shake your head drowsily as you give a small groan, lifting yourself up from the surface and throwing the blanket off you carelessy.

Ow. Your chest.

It feels strange. Everything feels strange.

How long have you been asleep?

Your thoughts are scattered apart, all over the place, and incredibly unfamiliar. You can't think straight, just like before... before... before... you've... before...

Before you'd _regenerated._

Wait, where _are_ you?

_Who_ are you?

Shaking your head again, you register something soft beneath your fingertips and look down, surprised, to see yourself lying on a simple albeit incredibly comfortable bed. It doesn't seem like the room in your TARDIS, and you hardly know anything in here; not to mention, you wouldn't keep everything this dirty.

_You_ wouldn't, of course. Your old reincarnation, without a doubt, would. She'd taken her room for granted, but right now, as you take a look around at the foreign room, you feel uncomfortable with the amount of clothes strewn around the room.

Oh, good. You're a clean freak.

That reminds you. Rubbing the back of your neck nervously, you swing your legs over the bed and leap up a little unsteadily on your feet, surveying the room for a mirror- finding one behind the dor, you stumble over to it to survey yourself.

First you need to figure out who exactly you are.

You've grown so used to your old body that you've completely forgotten what it means to regenerate. Nervously, you run your fingers over the details over your face, wondering if you're going to be ginger or brunette or blonde or dark-haired. If you're going to be short or tall or a hundred other possibilities. If you're going to have green or grey eyes.

Ooh, you _really_ hope you're blonde. You'd like to be blonde for a change.

Humming a tune you can't quite make out, you steady yourself against the wall and is just about to take a look into the mirror when the door opens and smacks you in the face.

"Ow." You say, wincing, and fall backwards onto your ass. "Watch it, _dweeb._ "

Oh. That was rude. You're rude, is that it? Ruder than before, certainly.

_Dweeb._ You like that insult.

"(Y/N)!" Jack exclaims, horrified, then momentarily seems to have a circuit error. "Oh, so I'm a _dweeb_ now. Thanks."

"Whatever." You rub your nose. "Just help me up, Peter Pan. You know," As an afterthought, as he hoists you up; "Since you can't die, that nickname _does_ fit you. Peter Pan from Neverland."

Poetic. _Peter Pan from Neverland._

He laughs, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to support you. "You alright?"

"I feel incredibly sexy." You wriggle your eyebrows, giving him a pretentious flick of the hand as he looks down at you. "Also, refreshed." You can feel his eyes, scanning you down, trying to determine if you're alright or not. "I'm OK, Jack. Let me go."

Jack, instead, holds onto you and helps you towards the living room. "Says who?" He questions as you limp at a speed of barely two meters per hour.

"Says me." You push him away, walk three steps, and promptly fall on your face. You roll over and grin up at the ceiling, only to see Martha and the Doctor's face enter your vision. "And you guys. Howdy, peeps. Where exactly am I?"

"You all right?" Martha starts to say, when the Doctor cuts in.

"Oh, regeneration. She's all right. Refreshed." Fishing out his sonic screwdriver, he turns up to setting and starts buzzing you. _Very_ loudly.

You give him a scowl and smack his hand away, feeling slightly annoyed. "I'm _fine,_ thanks for asking. Now give me a briefing on what the hell you're doing with the Master. And... uh, can I have a mirror?"

The three of them exchange glances as you land yourself in a chair and slowly, Jack passes you a hand mirror. You accept it with a mumble of thanks and bring it up to your face- to see... yourself.

First is that you're _blonde._ First time for everything. You'd wanted to be blonde, so that was good and all, but when you bent your head you could see the brown roots, so not fully blonde. Your skin is olive, darker than it’d been before. Healthy. You like it. You tap the spot where you’d had a little scar, the side of your mouth, to note that it’s gone. Unblemished skin—at least, for now. _Very_ nice.

Holding the mirror by the very edge, you swivel your face- your _younger_ face, for you'd say physically about twenty-four or five, which would make you about ten years younger than your previous form- around to examine it at every angle. Grimacing to show your teeth—normal-sized front teeth, very nice—twisting your head around at ninety degrees to take a look at your bone structure, moving your face up and then down and then up again.

Taking a handful of light hair, you let the waves fall between your fingertips, and is just about to duck down to take a look at your knees when there’s a _crash._ Letting out a uncontrollably loud hiccup, you sit straight up before realizing you’ve dropped the mirror.

Oops.

“I did nothing.” You claim, letting out another hiccup, and as innocently as you can, sweep the shards beneath your chair, inconspicuously picking up the largest shard and stuffing it into your pocket.

The three stare at you.

“So.” You say, rubbing your hands to divert the attention from the mirror: "Anyone going to ask me for an explanation?"

* * *

"Brief contact." You pick up the mug of tea, and drop it as calmly as you can. _Ow, hot._ "Brief, of course, mental communication slash contact slash whatever. When I, you know." Wincing slightly. "Smashed his head against the button."

"You smashed his head against a button?" Martha asks, horrified. At least, she seems so. You have no idea why.

You make a face, waving her question away. "Long history. Quarrels and stuff. Anyways, the point is, if he's only been there eighteen months tops like the Doctor said, then he can't have livedout his false life."

"But he's always been here." Martha contradicts. "Whole life. Wrote a book, married, ran for-"

You shush her loudly, and then do the same to the Doctor, pacing back and forth. "I looked in his head, and it matches up with the fact that he's always been kind of hypnotic. Always at a smaller scale, though. Personal level." Tapping your fingers, you lean your weight into the table to survey the other three. "His mind says he's using something else to channel that. Like an interceptor. Like a... a..." What was that word again? "An amplifier."

"But that's not possible." The Doctor contradicts, crossing his arms. "Even if what you're saying is true, _no one_ can look into the Master's mid without going mad. It's impossible."

"Well I'm alright, so shut up." You reply, reaching over to smack him upside the head.

He mouths an _ow!_ and rubs his head, looking at you as if insulted. "Well you're... very nice."

"I'm not _mean_ _._ " You scoff. 'You're mean, you twat. The point still stands. I looked into his mind, that is exatly what I saw. Look, Martha, you were going to vote, right?"

Martha looks baffled. "Well, yes, but-"

"You were going to vote for him."

"How did you-"

You put a finger to your lips, tiptoeing up to sit on top of the table, letting your legs dangle beneath you. "You too, Jack. Why do you say that? What was his policy? What did he stand for?"

"I don't know. He always sounded good."

Now _that_ sounds like him. Mucho gusto. You scan over her as she begins tapping a rhythm, the same rhythm you're tapping. "Like you could trust him." She says, entranced. "Just nice. He spoke about. I can't really remember, but it was good. Just the sound of his voice."

Raising an eyebrow, you give her a once-over. "Now what's that? That. What are you tapping? That rhythm, what is it?"

"I- I don't know!" She seems incredibly confused, looking down at her hands as if just noticing what she's done. "It's nothing. It's- it's- I don't know."

You spin back towards the two boys and throw both arms out, as if to say: _see?_ "Voila. Brainwashed the entire world and we're arguing in Martha Jones' living room. No offense, by the way."

"None taken." She replies, rather puzzled, and you give her a wink, reaching over to turn on the telly. Instantly, fanfare bursts out and the Master's face appears on-screen.

_Amplifier. Came into existance. The sound of his voice. The rhythm._

It is so fucking obvious. You let out a drowsy smirk, watching him talk on-screen as your eyes follow his mouth. Several hundred years and he still talks the same.

And then the final piece, which must be slotted into place right about.. now.

_"A message for humanity, from beyond the stars."_

_"People of Earth, we come in peace. We bring great gifts. We bring technology and wisdom and protection. And all we ask in return is your friendship."_

_"Ooo, sweet. And this species has identified itself. They are called the Toclafane."_

"Oh, _fuck._ " You cuss, bursting into laughter.

The Doctor exclaims, _"What?"_

_"And tomorrow morning, they will appear. Not in secret, but to all of you. Diplomatic relations with a new species will begin. Tomorrow, we take our place in the universe. Every man, woman and child. Every teacher and chemist and lorry driver and farmer."_

Rambling. Buying time. Glancing at Martha, you reach over to kick open the door and slowly, grab your coat, sliding it over your torn, tattered clothing.

_"Oh, I_ _don't know, every medical student?"_

You reach out to spin the TV around, putting the explosives into full display.

"Run." You whisper, and run.


	27. Left for Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people might be interested so I worked out their personality and MBTIs  
> 7th (Y/N): Lawful good, ISFP  
> 8th (Y/N): Chaotic neutral, ENTJ

_-Doctor (Y/N) (L/N), sometimes referred to as Hope. She is known to be armed and incredibly dangerous-_

Martha's phone in your hand, you lean against the wall to tilt your head back, closing your eyes. Humming along to a song that you can hear, far away in the distance. Someone's phone ringtone, no doubt. _Honesty_ by Billy Joel.

You'd met him. The world had been full of twats back then, but surprisingly, he hadn't been one of them.

The Doctor, Martha, and Jack are in the same warehouse that you're leaning on; you, however, choose this spot very purposefully, facing the CCTV at the other end.

Everyone is predictable. Even the Master. You mouth a countdown- five... four... three... two... one... and the phone erupts in ringing, buzzing in your hand furiously. Without so much as a second thought, you accept the call, bringing it to your ear.

"Your lord and master speaks." From the other line, you can hear the Master giggling delightedly. "Lovely Hope."

"Howdy, bro." You look up at the security camera to flash it a wink. "Haven't seen you in a long time. How's PM suiting you? Too much official work, no doubt."

He sighs. "Too much. By the way- nice new face. You look _very_ sexy. Absolutely delicious."

"Thank you." You laugh, finger twirling a strand of wavy hair. "I like the touch with the blonde hair. Meddled with my regeneration, no doubt. Well, you've succeeded in reminding me of my childhood."

"What's wrong with our childhood. It was the best part of my life."

"I didn't like being a child." You sweep your hair away to give a deadpan look at the camera. "I told you this so many times, Snowball. I was ugly and tiny. You were the _only_ one who didn't think so."

"You were still beautiful when you were a child."

"You don't have to _pretend_ it's not true, love. I know that was why you never let me play with the other children."

A pause. "Am I that predictable?"

"So predictable you couldn't resist pulling me out of the Time War." You say, and your voice is humored even though you're not laughing. Like you're laughing at him because he's so _stupid._ "Even after so long, you, you maniac, couldn't bear to see me die. So you took up guise as my Captain, put me on a pod, drugged me. Isn't that right... _Captain?"_

He is silent on the other side, and you are wondering whether he has left or not when his voice says again, "How long have you known?"

"The moment I scanned you with my sonic." You say, and bring the said thing out, rolling it between your fingertips. "DNA never lies, Kent."

The name seems to hang in the air, eating into the rhythm all around you. You lean against the wall, tapping out your own rhythm; one-two. one-two. one-two. one-two. 

"Kent." A giggle on the other side. "Do you know how long I've waited, how _far_ I've traveled, to hear you say that? Always _you._ Always _the Master._ Why can't we go back to when we were children, hmm? Is it because of _him?_ It's _always_ because of him, isn't it? Our story is always like that: me and you, until he comes along and ruins _everything_. The... what do humans call it? Rebound guy."

"He wasn't my rebound guy." Your voice has hardened just a bit. Just a fraction of a bit. "You were my first priority. _Always._ "

"Oh, that's right!" The Master says, and you can imagine it, the huge smile on his face. That smile you love. _"I_ was your rebound guy!"

"You weren't, either, you dimwit. I just didn't want to lose my best friend." Waving the remark away. "Anyways, moving on. Toclafane. I'm guessing it's not a coincidence you named it that. Ugh, I want to snap your neck."

He laughs, excitedly. "I _missed_ this. Your insults get me _so_ turned on."

"And I didn't need to know that." You make a face. "Come on, Toclafane? That was the monster under my bed. I was _terrified_ of it. You loved using it as an excuse to get close to me."

"I was adorable, wasn't I?"

"You were a pervert." You deadpan. "Until I stopped getting scared, that was. That's connected to this. You're getting old, Kent."

He chuckles, darkly. "Oh, yes. I want to do something to _you._ To you and your _boyfriend._ The one who ran away from time, and the one who let it engulf her."

"I don't really get what's funny about this, but OK." You remark. "What do you want me to do, now?"

"I want you to come aboard the Valiant." He whispers, dramatically, "And I want you to join my side."

Join his side. Hah, very funny.

"I'll think about it." You tell him, nonchalantly. "And Kent?"

"Hmm?"

"I missed you." You conclude, and hang up, your fingers drumming at your thigh. _One-two. one-two. one-two. one-two._

You stay out there, for a few more minutes, until you see Martha approaching with takeout from the distance. Then you stand up and join her.

You're not stupid.

You'll join the Master if it means the people you care about will be safe, and that's that.

* * *

Humming to the same tune, over and over again, you lean down to press your sonic against the little twist of wires, ignoring the pair of eyes fixated against her back as you clamp your fingers between the key.

Only the two of you are present. Jack has exited to another room, presumably to talk with his Torchwood colleagues, and Martha Jones is out for something you'd told her necessary. Fruit loops.

Of course, you hadn't really needed them. It's just a craving, but apparently she's taken it seriously.

Snorting at the thought, you push up the rolled-up sleeves of your dress shirt- honestly, you hadn't known you were _this_ tall, you'd just thought Martha was short- and toss the sonic onto the table to use both hands. Perception filters are tricky things; without the TARDIS keys, it would have taken at least six hours for you to finish the job, but since there _are_ the keys, now it takes nigh two.

Not virtually impossible. You're smarter than that.

The key slips from your hand and lands in the floor with a small thump, and with a groan of annoyance you reach down to grab the key in your mouth, rolling up the bottoms of your too-big pants. These clothes are making you too clumsy, but you hadn't really had time to pick out your ideal clothes.

Still, better than being naked. Heh.

Skipping over to the other side, you reach over to pluck Martha's key out of the Doctor's hands- "hey!"- and dismantle the filter he'd been working on, instead adding in a little touches of your own. You take your time to tune down the setting of your sonic to attach an extra program.

There is perpetually, one problem with the plan you've formulated in your head. One.

But that one possibility could ruin everything. Clamping your teeth around your sonic, you use your nails to tear away at the plastic outerwear and rip out the metal. One possibility.

The Master, unlike what everyone says, is predictable. If only one knows him.

And in the end, who knows him better than you do?

Laughing softly at the thought, you twiddle the rectangular piece of metal between your fingers and plug it into the key, wrapping it around the hole like a second layer. "Ooh." You muse, humming to _Time and Space._ An old nursery rhyme.

An old Gallifreyan nursery rhyme.

Behind you, there is no answer. You don't care, neither do you really worry. This is a good nursery song. It'd been one of your favourites. You, and the Master's.

_If you travel through time and space_

_You may see the diamond lakes_

_The timless space to make your heart race_

_And other species' cosmic base_

_But whatever way you go in space_

_You will always return, to the lightest space_

_The space of joy and wizened faces_

_The space of Gallifrey_

The space of Gallifrey. That part always, you liked.

You drum a rhythm on the table cheerfily as you feed a piece of twine into the hole of the key, looping it around, and is just about to tie a perfect knot when the Doctor blurts out, "You're different."

You give him a stare, and then return to your work, tying a knot. What he expected, you have no idea. Of _course_ you're different. That dimwit. Ignoring him, you lay your first finished piece of work on the table gently, picking up Jack's half-finished one.

"(Y/N)." He says.

You look back at him, stick your tongue out, and reach out to close your fingers around the laptop, pulling it towards you. You enter a program code to set the filter.

One to go.

Your fingers reach towards for the piece of twine and you attempt to take hold when a hand intercepts yours, snatching your wrist out of the air.

"Wait." He commands, but it sounds more like a plead, a desperate one. "Stop."

Innocently enough, you have no idea what he’s talking about. For the first time, probably. "For what? Your brain to catch up?" Laughing sarcastically, you jab your thumb onto the sonic and give the key a good wiggle to make sure it doesn't fall off. All good. You should be ready in no time.

"No, stop." He says, and his eyes are sad and something else. _Angry? Annoyed?_ "I know this isn’t really you."

"What isn’t really me?" You say, and you shake your wrist from his hand, returning to work. "This? I assure you, it’s fully me."

He opens his mouth to speak but you put a finger over his lips, looping the twine between your key and securing it. He attempts to speak again, but you ignore him again, grabbing the cut of copper.

"What are you trying to do?" The Doctor finally gets in, angrily. You don’t see why this is something to get so mad about. "Proving a point? Trying to annoy me? Hinting at something? I don’t get it! _Talk_ to me, (Y/N)!"

"There’s nothing to talk about." You give him a slightly bemused look. "This is just who I am now. Deal with it."

"But this can’t!" He throws up his hands. "This can’t be you! This isn’t the you I know!"

This is getting exasperating. Him getting in your line of work. You push him away as he nears you and roll the copper between your fingers, ignoring the way he’s looking at you. "So what. You want me to change? You want your poor tall, beautiful, dark-haired beauty to come back?"

"No, that's not what I meant. It’s—" he takes a deep breath and looks at you. "I don’t know anymore."

"Good," you reply, "Because neither do I." Annoyance is clear in your tone as you shrug his hand off. "You’re wasting time, big guy. Better get back to work."

“But you-" he starts, and with a pitying smirk on your face, you shush him.

"Oh, I get it." You say softly, tiptoeing up for your fingers to grip his shoulders. "Babe, is it because I’m not _crying_ over you like I did before? Is it because I’m not _emotional_ anymore? Is it because I’m not crying about you _leaving_ me now? Is it because I'm not _begging_ to know about Rose Tyler now?" Spinning him away and getting back on your feet, you turn back to the computer, leaning down to type in a code. "Well I’m sorry to let you down, but I really don't give a fuck."

The Doctor’s eyes are wide, staring at the space where you’d turned him, aghast. Unable to speak, because he knows it’s not a lie. This is all him.

"Now if you’ll excuse me," you say, giving him a sweet smile, "I need to figure out a plan to get us alive."

"B- but-" Behind you, you can almost imagine his face, wide, panicked, confused. "(Y/N), wait-"

You turn to give him a slightly confused look. Your last act of mercy- waiting.

"Do you-" He says, breath hitched, and almost as though he’s afraid, asks- "Do you still— still love me?"

_Do you love me?_ Four words, incredibly complicated. You hate that question. It's doubt, fear, anger, every negative emotion piled into one sentence. Stupid, as well as the fact that you simply don't get it. You prefer not to think. "It’s my fault all this between you and the Master started, and I’m sorry for that."

"You still haven’t answered my question."

"Well, if you _must_ know, there is a quite good song you should listen to. It's called-"

"No jokes this time. Please." He pleads, and something in his voice tells you that you shouldn't. You just shouldn't. You just can't find it in yourself to do so. You've already left one person for dead.

You look away.

"I’m not sure anymore."


	28. In League

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if this is confusing, i apologize  
> i MEANT FOR IT TO BE  
> AHAHAHAHHA  
> AHAHAHAHAHAAHAHHA-

_"Hope?" A male voice calls out. Following it is a man, face desperate and confused, whipping around for any trace of the said girl- whom has disappeared from sight. "Hope?"_

_There is no reply. Why would you? You've been occupied lately, not only with matters of your own private life but of a man. A man other than himself, one that you are actually interested in. "Hope, where are you?"_ _The name rings through the crowds and several people start to look towards him in annoyance, wondering what exactly he is doing in a place like this._

_He doesn't care. "Hope?" He repeats, louder, and for a moment he thinks he sees you but that is just him. "Hope!"_

_This time it rings true. He can see the flash of caramel hair, swooshing past._

_"HOPE!" He hollers. Pushing past the crowd, he reaches you and taps you on the shoulder when you spin around, a confused look on your face. He waits for that face to smile but instead you give him a slightly annoyed look. "Kent, I told you I'd be out."_

_"But this is- wha- who's that?" He asks._

_He hadn't noticed. Beside you is a tall man, his back to him. His arm is around you, fingers playing with your hair._

_As if on cue, the man turns, and his heart lurches; his friend. One of his best friends._

_"Doctor." He says, glumly._

_The Doctor opens his mouth to speak but you beat him to it, detaching yourself from him to hand him the food in your hand- food from Earth- and turn to him. "Kent, what's wrong?"_

_He blinks. So you've been again, snuck out with your shiny new boyfriend for another trip to Earth. He remembers the holograms you'd shown him, the thing in the Doctor's hand called ice cream. "You said you would come straight home." He responds. There is nothing else to say. He sounds lame._

_You blink, toss your gold hair back. "Whoops." You say, and laugh, pushing his shoulder gently. "Hey, just change of plans. Thanks for worrying about me but you really don't need to."_

_Stupid him. He'd thought for a second there was something more, that you'd need his help somehow. "So you'll stay out?"_

_"I'm on a_ date. _" You hold out a fist to bump his. "An unofficial one, but still. Anyways, you don't have to worry about me, I'll be fine. Your friend takes good care of me."_

_Your proximity to him makes him nervous. He can smell your scent, candy floss and apple grass. But it's not just a pure scent anymore, because he can smell him on you, the Doctor. All over you. Like a mark._

_"I'll see you." He says, uncharacteristically silent. You backtrack from him, giving him a little wiggle of fingers, and he smiles. But that smile fades instantly when he sees your mouth, reaching forwards to kiss the Doctor affectionately._

_He'll see you. Just not now._

"Howdy." You say. Your body is positioned right in front of the Doctor's old form, your arms crossed defiantly; your eyes, the green or grey eyes, watching the man in front of you. Right between the line of the Doctor and the Master.

He's called you. It's your time.

The Master's eyes bright, he watches your every move as you step forwards towards him and give him a mock salute. "Oh, you didn't lie! Hope, I'm _flattered._ "

"A promise is a promise." Shrugging, you don't move; but your eyes follow him, your mouth curved up in that permanent smirk. "And friends keep promises."

He laughs. There is silence, silence and several pairs of eyes watching them with awe. Watching _you_ with awe.

You turn your neck to toss the honey-blonde curls off your shoulder, your hands, as always, stuffed in your pockets. "Well are you going to stand there all day or help me over?" You say, impatiently, as you drum your fingers against the inside of your pockets. He smiles, again, as though he can't believe it. Time Lords, humans- they're all predictable and hilarious.

His eyes widen and his pupils blow wide, the smile spreading wider and wider onto his face. "Dear Hope."

Leaning forwards, he holds up his arm. Asking you over.

You give him a satisfied nod and is just about to cross the line when something scrabbles weakly at your ankle; shaking it off, you turn with a inquiring look- only to see the Doctor, old and helpless, watching you like a plea.

"Hey, old man." You greet, turning back to the Master to let out a laugh- can you _believe_ this grandpa?- "Whatcha doin?"

He whispers something. Grinning, you crouch down, feigning pity; "A little louder there, babe. Can't really hear you with that rasp going on. Or is it the age?"

His fingers are grasping your coat, but there is no strength; he barely has enough to lift himself up.

"You- you don't have to do this." He whispers.

Rolling your eyes, you tear his hand away from your shoulder, pushing him away to stand back up; "No," You scoff, the too-big trench coat of your last regeneration scraping the floor; "You don't get to tell me what to do. You're my fiance, not my _master._ "

"But you'd do _anything_ for him!" Jack shouts, angrily. He is watching you as though you're an angry and incredibly rabid hippopotamous. "You told me you _love_ the Doctor!"

Laughing. You don't realize you are, until your hands flip out a small device from your pocket and your thumb presses play.

A metallic voice crackles out from the device; the sound fills the air and there is silence, save for the heavy breathing recorded onto the technology. Everyone's eyes on the object held between your fingers emitting sound. The center of attention, all focused onto the little thing, just because of the sounds it is making.

_"Do you- do you still love me?"_ The Doctor's frightened voice asks you. You shake your head, letting your hair fall over one eye, closing your eyes to listen.

_"It’s my fault all this between you and the Master started, and I’m sorry for that."_

_"You still haven’t answered my question."_

_"Well, if you must know, there is a quite good song you should listen to. It's called-"_

_"No jokes this time. Please."_ Hesitation. There is a crackling, like you're moving it around in your pocket, and then your voice, loud and clear: _"I'm not sure anymore."_

"No." You reply finally, tossing the recording onto the floor, and crush it underfoot.

The Doctor stares at you, eyes wide and hurt, and you know what he's thinking: _I loved you._ How boring. Like a melodrama. You _really_ don't like long ad libs.

But unlike what you'd previously thought, all that comes out from his mouth is a whisper: "You _can't."_

Denial. Stages of grief, and that's pretty much it.

You ignore her. Instead, you accept the Master's playful arm and with the other stuffed in your pocket, step next to him. As comfortable as though you've been there your whole life; which, you really have. "I can and I will." You respond, defiantly.

He grins, that characteristical maniac laugh. "So you _do_ care." He coos, and his arm comes up to wrap around your shoulder, his fingers drumming the rhythm against you. You push it off you and instead, your elbow comes up to rest against his shoulder as you lean your weight on him carelessly.

"What're you playing at?" Jack shouts, and he seems genuinely angry. You laugh. This is _exactly_ like a drama. One of them at a time, all trying to attack you. "What are you trying to _do?"_

"Do?" You put a finger to your chin. "Oh, I don't quite know. Get back with my childhood best friend, maybe. Oh!" Pointing a finger, like those cartoons when a character realizes something. _"Maybe_ I wanted to get away from a toxic relationship in which my S.O wouldn't even _look_ at me when I was dying on the ground!"

"We all _trusted_ you." He hisses. "How long have you been in league with him?"

You cross your arms. "The day I was born." You reply, and stick your tongue out at him. "Other than that answer, none of your business, Captain Jack Harkness."

You are sorry for Jack Harkness, the first person to ever comfort you after the Doctor's 'death'. Jack Harkness, whom holds a special place in your heart, but no one else; Jack and Jack only.

Your finger comes to stroke the object inside of your pocket, like running your finger down the spine of a lizard.

_Not yet._


	29. Small talk with a murderer

Your hands grasping the windowsill, you look out of the huge ship, watching the chaos left of everything.

The screaming has stopped. Thank god for that; screaming hadn't exactly blended in with the whole _victory_ mood that had been going on, and you'd honestly been a bit annoyed.

Behind you there is a cough and you give a lazy smile at your own reflection, fully aware of the fact that you are not alone. Guards, at least seven of them, patrolling the area at all times. Like you're a trophy girlfriend, or something.

Looking down, you wonder, for a brief moment, what Martha Jones is doing. She'd been a pretty good friend. Hopelessly in love with the Doctor, as your previous form had detected, but nice nevertheless. Not to mention Jack Harkness, somewhere on the ship, chained up and alone. Hating you for leaving them.

It's funny, really, how quickly someone will go from _love_ to _hate-_ but then again, no one hates you as much as someone who used to love you. The Master is a living example of that. You smile to yourself.

"Hope." The familiar voice says behind you, and a second later you feel the Master's hands on your shoulders, his breath hot against your hair. You shrug it off- physical contact is something you only allow in rare cases- but his hands slide down to your biceps, fingers tapping a rhythm against them. _Di-di-di-dum. Di-di-di-dum._

"You know," You remark with a grin, taking your hands away from the sill to stuff them into your pockets; "You can't call me that forever. My _name_ is (Y/N). (Y/N) (L/N)."

He laughs. "Oh, yes, the most unremarkably _human_ name." He is laughing at you but you are hardly offended. Why would you be? "I liked Hope much better. The last thing to stay in Pandora's Jar. The thing that will never abandon humans. Pretentious but with a touch of rebellion."

You snort. "And _the Master_ is much better. The man who conquers."

"We chose our names, together." He recalls, and his hand trails up to tuck a strand of gold hair behind your ear. "You, me, the _Doctor._ "

"And then I gave mine away because I didn't deserve it!" You grin. "Every name has a promise. (Y/N) was a promise to be like humans. Have compassion." Spreading your arms. "You can see how that worked out."

"I liked Hope the best." He shrugs, his hands cold on your neck.

Smacking his hand away, you turn away from him to take a look at the tent, hitched up with the Doctor in it. He is probably listening in. "Stop touching me. You know I hate physical contact."

"You didn't have a problem with the Doctor."

You roll your eyes but smile anyway. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous."

"Of _course_ I'm jealous!" He says, and takes a deep inhale. "Stop turning me on. It's very distracting."

"Oh, trust me, I had no intention to."

He looks like he wants to say something but stops. You eye the tent, wondering if he is actually asleep or listening in to whatever the two of you are saying. You hope the latter; it would make your job much easier.

"Look," You say, and perch yourself against the windowsill, so your back is to the glass and your feet are swinging off the ground; "Just to clear some things up. Don't take it too seriously. I _hate_ being serious."

The Master grins. "Go on."

You hop off the sill, twisting around to walk in a wide circle around the controls, pacing as you speak; "The past- about Gallifrey, I mean. When my other reincarnation left you for the Doctor."

"Oh, don't start." He makes a mock sad face. "What about that?"

He gives you a disbelieving look and you shake your head with a laugh, tossing yoru hair behind your shoulder- long hair, _long hair,_ what a fucking joke- to flip a switch. Music blares out and you turn it back off. "No hard feelings. Just saying. Are you still salty about the whole thing?"

"Salty? Me? _Never._ "

"OK." You reply, and shrug, fingering the thing in your pocket. "That's fine. OK, then."

"But," He continues, "Come here. (Y/N)."

Oh. First time he's used your name. You have to admit, it sounds _ridiculous_ coming out of his mouth; almost as ridiculous as the whole _Toclafane_ incident. Shrugging, you step closer to him, fully aware of his dark eyes and how his pupils dilate to blow wide. After all you've done, he's still so blind.

"I'm not sure what your _intentions_ are." He says, his face nearing yours, and your eyes- green or grey, whatever colour- scan him, coldly. "Are you just trying to stay alive? Are you still loyal to the Doctor? Do you _still_ love him?"

You snort, hands still in your pockets, looking at him with absolute calm. "You wish."

"Or," He draws even closer, the grin still evident on his face; "Are you a backstabbing liar who just wants to hang on till the end?"

"Oh, all right." You smirk, reaching up to tilt his chin down. "I'll tell you my plan. I was going to wait until I've gained your trust by snogging you and going down the memory lane and then I was going to stab you with a piece from my shattered mirror- but I guess I've been found out! Oops!" 

"Have I mentioned-"

"I don't want to know about my death threats getting you turned on." You make a face, walking over to the controls to survey them. Primitive technology. "Shut up about that before I kick you off the ship."

"You're hardly threatening." He teases.

You chortle distractedly, examining the nails holding the glass to the window. "I may be 5'4" but I can still snap your neck like a twig." Holding up your hand as an illustration. "Obviously."

Grinning, the Master slings his arm over you- something he enjoys doing for some unknown reason and possibly fetish- and leads you over to the CCTV cameras.

_"Before_ you snap my neck like a twig, just to be sure."

You raise a pointed eyebrow at him, and follow his gesture to turn towards the video feed. There is one of almost every hall in the _Valiant-_ a lot- and you take an note of every one of them, your elbow propped up on the table. "What do you want me to say? Want a cookie? Well done?" Snorting, you reach down to meddle with the keyboard, moving the frames around- corridor one, corridor two, corridor three, engine room-

"Oh, no. Just one thing. One." He holds up a finger- one- and pushes you aside to type something into the keyboard. An image pops up, an image you don't recognize at first.

But you do recognize it and it's Jack, the con-man you'd delved into the mind of while you'd kissed. He's chained up, forced to be propped up like a trophy. You touch the screen, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

"He's been like that for what, four, five days now?" You let out a low whistle, turning to the Master. "Impressive."

"Oh, don't tell me you're having second doubts." The Master laughs, and you turn back, your eyes fixed on his like a hawk watching his prey. Your movements deliberately slow.

"Never," you deny, your thumb stroking the object in your pocket, and you smile at him. "Never."

* * *

The next day, the security doubled.

You never found out why.


	30. Havoc and Fires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ianto's coffee  
> You've got me to 100 kudos  
> thank you!!!!!!!!!!

_"What the_ FUCK _do you think you were fucking doing?" You scream. Your mascara is running down your cheeks in a cascade of black, your hands shaking as you grip your hair. It's a mess but you don't care. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!"_

_The Doctor is there, standing helplessly. You can't help but feel a pit of boiling rage, right there in the pit of your stomach. You can't think straight. How_ dare _he?! How could he- "You_ - _are- overreacting!" He yells back._

_"Oh, because I'm the girl, I obviously overreact over everything!" You snap harshly. "I am NOT!"_

_He is at the other side of the room, and he attempts to step forwards, but you let out a scream, hiding behind one arm, the other scrabbling backwards for anything to help you. Your fingers close around something metallic and heavy- you yank your arm behind you and throw it at him. He ducks and the thing shatters against the far wall. "Stay away from me! I'm_ warning _you!"_

_"Just calm down and_ think, _Hope!" He holds up his hands, cursing. "I can explain everything!"_

_No, he can't. He can't explain_ anything. _He'll just feed you lies, kill you from the inside, eat you away like acid. That's what he always does and YOU CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE-_

_"NO!" You screech, and back away from him. You can't trust him. You can't trust anyine. Not anymore._

_"Hope,_ please- _"_

_You shrink away from him. "What was it this time, huh?" You snap, angrily. "She was the one who started it? You wanted to leave? You had too much to drink?"_

_"Please, just CALM DOWN-"_

_"NO! I'M NOT CALMING DOWN!" You can't. How can you, when the man you love is out doing god knows what behind your back? When the man you'd thrown everything away for takes you for granted so much? "Don't you dare tell me to calm down again!"_

_He pleads with you, coming closer, but you can't help but notice everything. His loosened tie. The smell of ginger beer and nougats- the equivalent of alcohol for a time lord. And the smallest trace of pink, hinted in the corner of his mouth._

_It’s all laid out in front of you. And you hate it._

_"No." You whisper, and your eyes squeeze shut, pressing yourself against the wall. "No, don't do this to me."_

_The Doctor's hand lands an inch from your face and he leans down at you. "I told you, love, I can explain everything." He slurs._

_"No, you can't. Just get away from me, fuck you."_

_Everything's changed. Everyone's changed. The Master, the Doctor, your friends, your colleagues; they're all different. You're all alone. Or maybe it's you that's changed._

_His breath smells like ginger and alcohol. Obviously meant to get drunk, then. You duck under, intending to run away from him, but his hand flies out and faster than you can manage, snags onto your sleeve. You shake your head, crying. Still crying. "Doctor, just stop it."_

_"Just- just listen to me, Hope. Love, look at me. Look at me." He drowsily presses his hands against your face and forces you to meet his eyes. You shake your head, slap him away from you, try not to look at him._

_"No. This is what you wanted, hmm? A girl who would fawn over every- single- FUCKING- thing you do! A girl who would swoon at you, someone who isn't like me."_

_"Hope, I didn't- I wasn't out with her."_

_"You liar. You_ PROMISED, _you told me you wouldn't-_ "

_"No, I won't. I won't. I didn't."_

_"You fucking_ lied _to me!_ "

_"Hope. Hope, look at me._ Look at me. _"_

_"No!"_

Sucking in a breath, you knead your fingers behind your head and open your eyes.

Oh, that was one hell of a sentimental dream. You are lying on the windowsill of your room- more like a nice imprisonment- the sight of the world on fire below lighting your face a fiery red. The world is a fiery hue of red, green and yellow, and even though it chokes you, as though you are stuck in a fragment of your past, you cannot stop looking at it.

The fires, you remember them from back in the ship, When it had burned the world. Still remembering the skin splitting open, the black and blue staining your hands. Squeezing your hands into fists, you look down at them for a second before whipping back up to the glass, placing a hand flat on the window.

The plexiglass has the same texture as the glass from the escape pod. When you'd been forced to run away from everything: your best friend, your fiance, your life.

Speaking of your fiance- sagging against the wall, you put your fingers, long, cold and nimble, to your own temples, forcing your own mental to bury it, deep inside. Deeper and deeper, to where it was before, all the way down with all the _other_ memories.

When it's finally done, you smile brightly at nothing in particular.

That memory had been from... what, two, three hundred years ago? You'd buried it, but it's apparently resurfaced. You're not _bothered,_ no- it's just a bit unpleasant to see yourself in such a state.

Third person dreams. You are probably one of the only people who have them.

A sarcastic laugh tearing out of your mouth, you prop yourself up on the sill further to stare straight down below. It's chaotic and exactly the opposite of what the Doctor would like, but you like it. It reminds you of your past, of all that had happened in Gallifrey, and you can't forget it. That's what sets you apart.

The fact that you're _you._

You sound all Greek and philosophical. You should know, you'd joined a discussion with them in your early stages of life. They'd been crazy, all of them.

Laughing at the thought, you climb back down from the sill and grab your coat, slinging it around you. The weight of the objects in your pocket presses against your thigh and you pat it affectionately, slipping your oxford shoes on. Everything, too big for you, not to mention _incredibly_ not your style. You want a miniskirt. Or some actual sneakers. Or some clothes that fit you properly.

It's just occured to you, actually, that you haven't eaten in three weeks now, ever since the end of the world. Sounds like a punchline. You snort to yourself, having thought of a good joke, and stroll over briskly towards the mirror, checking your hair briefly.

If you're going to discuss some old history, at least you can do it with style.

The door is locked from the outside. You're out in less than fifteen seconds with the help of your sonic; pushing the door open, you pointedly ignore the tiny creak it emits and slip out through the gap, closing it soundlessly. It's dark but you've been in darker places; your eyes adjust to the light quickly.

There are no guards in the corridor. You smile- this is _too_ easy- and swerve to avoid the angle of the cameras, coming to a stop in front of the sealed off door to your target.

"Oh, don't disappoint me." You breathe, the grin still evident on your face, and turn to the lock, working your magic on it. It's deadlocked but easily opened- again, laughable human technology. It clicks open, taking a little longer- a minute or so- and you turn the heavy steel door to step foot inside of the control room.

First thing you notice is- it's _hot._ Incredibly.

Of course it would be, though. You snigger as you examine to too-old technology keeping you afloat, as well as the angry red lights on the machine. Tearing off the cabinet doors, you note with a hint of satisfaction that it's at least quite a new try; it does't run on fossil fuels. Or was that another century?

"Oh, why didn't you just choose to engage your precious _machinery?"_ A voice glumly states from behind you. You'd expected him. A laugh and flourish of your hand, you pull your hair in front of one shoulder and ignore the messy curls floating around to turn around. The Master leans against the doorway, his suit straightened out and crisp.

You give him an offended look. "I'll have you know, I would have."

"Until the precious _Doctor_ showed up." The Master sings. He saunters over to you, his tall form not intimidating in the least- but strangely hypntoic. Always hypnotic. "Tell me, what _is_ your opinion on his current position? Wrinkly, old, lives in a tent... the man of your dreams, isn't he?"

You snort. "You wish. I'm not quite into old men, thanks."

"You're an old woman too, darling Hope."

"Thank you." You look back at him, letting out a sarcastic grin. "Thank you for reminding me that I am in fact seven hundred and thirty. The ideal woman's age."

The Master lets out his most charming on-screen camera smile. "You're quite welcome, my lady."

You look up at the monitors, where the security cameras show live feed, and examine each of them in turn; room one, room two, room three, the room where Jack is hung up, his head nodding off but the rest of his body forced to stay up; the quarters where Martha's parents are kept. You shoot past all of them and reach the main room, which is completely deserted.

“So how exactly are you going to find _Martha Jones_?” You ask, leaning down to take a look at the hydroconometer- good, _good._ “The Doctor is cowering beneath your feet, Jack is strapped up and tortured every day—which I have to say isn’t very pleasant, I kind of liked him, he was hot-”

“Oh, don’t get me jealous.” He snorts. “ _Hot?_ He looks like a freak!”

You give him a look. “He’s six feet tall and has out-of-the-world fashion sense. Of course I find him sexy.”

“Oh, come on. You’re just trying to make me jealous.”

“It’s not always about you.” Letting out a sarcastic snort of laughter, you give him a dead look before returning to examining and changing the machinery. “I like other people too, Kent.”

"But that just makes you think, doesn't it? I wonder, sometimes. You and I-" Pointing to you, and then him; "We would have made an excellent couple."

A couple. You, and him.

"No, we really wouldn't have." You give him a tight-lipped smile, flipping out your sonic to scan all the angry buttons. Nothing abnormal. This ship is as steady as the Tom and Jerry episodes- they just keep going on.

He watches you, steadily, like a hawk, and you make sure your actions are slow and deliberate so that he knows exactly what you are doing; upgrading the source materials to a much modern technological development. The thing you’d promised him over a week ago. "Why?"

"Unlike what you think, babe, you're not quite my type." You glance up at him and stuff the sonic back into your pocket, unbuttoning the cuffs of your blouse. "I go for the more tall-dark-handsome type. Like the Doctor. Or Jack Harkness." Whistling. "Now _he_ was one fine specimen."

"I could regenerate. _You_ could regenerate. The others wouldn't." He points out. You stare up at him with a disbelieving look and return to your work.

"Oh, yes." You reply, distractedly, your coat rolled up to your elbows as you stick your hands into the mess of wires. "Obviously. Because you'd love it, wouldn't you? Kill Jack, kill the Doctor, kill Martha Jones, kill everyone I care and used to care about. And then kill me. For good measure." Turning back to him. "What do you think I'll look like in my next regeneration? Taller? Brunette? _Ginger?"_

"Unlike what you think, darling, I don't want you _dead._ "

You roll your eyes, and you turn to shake your sleeves back down your arms, one finger reaching up to press itself against the spot where your left heart is. Grinning up at him, you form a finger gun with that hand and mime shooting. "You really aren't in the position to say that."

Also, it's a bit faulty. You really liked that old body, except for the fact that it cried all the time. Perfect little Mary Sue.

"I just needded to get you into this form." He points out, grabbing your hand and lowering it with a wince.

"Oh, so you _do_ care." Smirking, you experiment with a few buttons. "Psychiatrists would have a field day with you. What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you having a seizure?" You deadpan, glancing up at him, and notice to your slight disgust that his pupils are blown wide and his breath erratic- signs of attraction.

"Because..." He says, his body nearing yours. You look up at him, eyes devoid of emotion, just a vaccum of space. "Because I want to play you to my advantage."

You don't take him seriously. Why would you? He's never serious, and neither are you. This isn't some kind of twisted _Clockwork Orange_ parody. In fat, if you could, you'd laugh.

Rolling your eyes, you open your mouth to speak, your hands pressed firmly in your pockets. "Yeah, right. Listen, Kent, you-"

Then he steps forwards, and swooping down, presses his lips to yours.

_Now?_


	31. Stab in the Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> please tell me if this story is getting too boring  
> i'm acc kinda worried

His mouth is insistent on you, insistent and desperate, because he knows you can't refuse without betraying him. That's the kind of position you're in- the position in which no one except a psychopath believes you anymore, and the ones you love think you're a psychopath.

_Fuck._

You stay where you are, not responding but not resisting, your hands curled into fists inside of your pockets.

Flashes of the war, running through your head.  His fingers wrap around your shoulders and you close your eyes, the fires burning furiously in your mind, down below, in the remnants of your memories. He tastes like blood and anger, ashes and something bitter that you can't quite make out.

Your breath is controlled perfectly, fingers wrapping around the object cocooned with cloth tightly, the sharp edges digging into your skin.

A funny memory, this time. You grin, one arm coming up to wrap around his neck, the other still inside your pocket. The cloth is ragged and you tilt your head as your finger comes to tap at the uncovered edge, blood welling up on the tip of your finger.

One chance- quick and strong. Where. Jugular? Artery? Go lower for the tendons? Hamstring? Clip him in the temple?

You haven't done this since the first time you'd ditched the name Hope. It's like a diagram, drawing up beneath your eyelids; the perfect vulnerable place to get in a single hit.

His hand reaches the small of your back and your fingers brush away the cloth to wrap around it. 

_Now._

Whipping the object from your pocket, you push him away and plunge the sharp edge into the cluster of nerves in his shoulder. Blood spurts out, spraying your face and clothes, but you ignore it, digging it deeper into his flesh as blood of your own kind stains your clothes and your skin.

He hisses, pushing you away, and you wipe the scarlet away from your face with your sleeve, hastily, the shard of mirror still clutched to your hand. Your eyes are dark, your mouth lifted up in a smile that does not seem like yours.

"You _bitch._ " He growls.

Your face completely devoid of any emotion whatsoever, you rub your wrist with your free hand and reaches out to deliver a sharp blow to the open wound. He grunts in pain, falls, like everyone did in the war. Your vision goes blurry and you raise your boot to dig your heel into the wound, watching as the blood stains your oxford shoes, the leather soaking up the scarlet in a matter of seconds.

A bloodbath. It doesn't bother you.

The only thing that does is that he's not dead yet.

You lean down, legs straddling him, and he manages to smack you across the face but you step on his hand. The shard drops down onto your thigh, drops of blood rolling dwn your leg as you raise your fists, punching him in the face, again and again and _again-_

_Die, DIE, YOU FUCKING SCUM._

_Blood. I want blood. Where's the blood?_

Your mouth pulls up into the grin- _that_ grin, the one that so many people saw before they died, the grin you haven't shown in over a century- and your fingers close around the shard to raise it, glinting in the dim red lights, red lights and red blood.

It slices down, in a perfect arc.

_People screaming under you as you kill them, massacre them by the thousands. You draw on the walls with their blood, watch as your hands stain permanently. Setting everything on fire and blood. So much blood._

_Bang!_

You hiss but refuse to drop the weapon, sharp edges an inch from the Master's throat. You switch hands, easily, and press it further into his flesh when you feel someone grabbing hold of you and dragging you away. Numbly, you let them.

_Go on, kill me, fuck me up, tear me to shreds-_

The Master's face, slick with blood, bruises blooming on his cheeks already. His shoulder is a mess of flesh, blood and gore, grotesquely caked with violence. You grin, blood churning in your mouth, blood clogging your nose, blood everywhere-

"Oh my god." There is a whisper, and you turn back to see Lucy, looking horrified, dressed in a silk nightgown. You eye her as she dives down, next to her husband. Her gown seeps up the liquid and you glower as her fingers scrabble at the wound, applying pressure desperately.

_Kill her too. MAKE her a killer._

"Harry! Harry, are you alright?"

The pretty little wife. Blond and beautiful. You can see why the Master would have chosen her. Her appearance reminds you of your childhood. A replacement for someone he can't have.

_Just a trophy wife. So what are you waiting for? Kill him._

You try to dive forwards but behind you, the guards have grabbed hold of your hands, your wrists secured into handcuffs, their hands tight on your forearms. The bullet's entry point on the back of your hand burns, but you rarely feel it, instead coming to tilt your head at Lucy like a snake, waiting for its prey. "Do you think he's alright?"

She turns, startled, and the expression turns to anger. " _You_ did this-"

"He did this to himself." You correct, and she stands up, eyes blazing. Black sparks flash across your vision and a second later you are on the ground, your cheek burning, the other one pressed against the cold floor. You laugh. _Violent. That's what everyone becomes. That's what you can't stop, ever._ You laugh. Keep laughing.

"Shut her up!" Lucy screams. "Shut her up!"

_Yes, shut me up. Fuck me up, tear me to pieces, turn me into a monster-_

You laugh, spitting out a glob of blood. The gun strikes the back of your head, and you feel blackness creeping into your vision, but you laugh, laugh, laugh.

_keeP LAUGHING-_

* * *

The Master looks down at you, a medic tending to his now pale shoulder. You are knelt in front of him, your wrist chained to one of the balcony railings in the flight deck, your arm raised above your head and your hand dangling, and on the same balcony are three guards, guns loaded and aimed at you. Ready to shoot at the first sign of trouble.

“(Y/N).” Is all he says. 

“Hullo.” You wave your injuired hand, cleaned and bandaged. You open your mouth to say something, tilt your head, and then shut it again, merely grinning. "Nice shoulder." You say instead. "Who did it to you?"

His eyes, russet brown, drill into you. Deciding something. "You really can't let go of him, can you?" He asks, venom apparent in his voice. "You just had to."

"Had to what?"

He shifts closer, leaning down, his hand trembling with anger, and surveys you. 

“You didn’t.” The Master repeats. “Tell me your didn’t, lovely Hope.” 

You shake your head, chin tilted up in defiance, not an ounce of fear in your eyes.

“Even after  all  he’s done to you, you just can’t, can you?” Your childhood friend’s voice is angry, for the first time, truly mad at you. Reaching over, his fingers wrap around your bicep, the one that's raised above your head. His fingers tickling your ear. “You can’t let go of him. He’s done so much to you and you  still choose him over me.”

Oh, this again.

You lean against the railings, shrugging to close your eyes. Tilting your head back. “I meant it, Kent, these past few weeks. I really did.” A smile on your face. "Reminded me of Gallifrey a bit, except everyone we know is dead now. But I meant it."

“No you  didn’t!”  He roars, and his grip around your bicep tightens, bruising fingers digging into the soft underside of your arm. “All you mean is  him!  The stupid Doctor who always breaks you and leaves you behind, and you  won’t let go of him .” His face is angry, all the playfulness from before vanished in a mere second. “Don’t think you fooled me for a second with that recording. It was all lies.”

Your teeth sinking into your bottom lip gently, your eyes flicker to Lucy Saxon. The good wife.

“Half of it was true, at least.” You shrug. “It is my fault, and I am sorry.” 

The Master snorts. He gestures to someone, and just out of your view, something is rolled in- someone. The Doctor, his wrinkled face fileld with pain and disappointment and all sorts of things. Sitting there, back hunched.

He hisses with bitter laughter. "Here we have the husband and wife."

"Shut up." You mimic in the same tone of voice, making a face, and roll your shoulders back, resting your head against the wall with a shake of the head. "Please, before you embarrass yourself."

"Or before you _kiss_ me again. Before you stab your own _best friend_."

Your eyes open, slowly, and you give him a raise of the eyebrow, your eyes flickering over to Lucy, and then the Doctor, and then Martha's family with Jack, all lined up against the wall. 

Jack gives you a questioning look, but the question in his eyes is not _are you all right?_ It's more of _why is your precious boyfriend chaining you up?_ You flush as his glare moves away from you, to your wrist; " _Do_ shut up."

“Oh, so you didn’t tell any of them.” He says, his finger jabbing into your chest. "Always so ashamed of me. Even back on Gallifrey, hiding me out of shame and _spite."_

“I’m not ashamed, Kent.” You roll your eyes, shaking his arm off to shift sideways. “You’re exaggerating.” 

“I am? I’m exaggerating  everything,  aren’t I? Always the antagonist!” The Master’s laugh is bitter and loud, come so far from the giggles he used to share with you. Astounding, really, what insanity can do to a person.

"You're not. I think of you highly."

His glare seems to penetrate you. “Then tell them!” He shouts, his nails biting crescents into your shoulders as he holds on. You let out a barely audible hiss as drops of blood mingle on your shoulders. “Tell your precious friends about us. See if they still want you.” 

“No.” You reply. Your answer is immediate. “Calm down, you idiot. Stop rough-handling me." Annoyed, you bring your free hand to slap his away from your shoulders. “And don’t try threatening me with the sonic, it won’t work.” 

The Master is mad at you, but he won’t harm you. He never will. 

“Fine.” He says, after moments of silence, and marches over to the Doctor, his hand visibly shaking as he aims the sonic at your fiance's old form. “You care about him. I could do it. To him, to your precious Martha Jones' family, to dashingly handsome Jack Harkness. I could kill them and you wouldn't care, would you?" The sonic is aimed at the said people, and then at the Doctor, as if it does't know which one to aim at. "You wouldn't."

You laugh. Your hand comes up to run through your hair, fingers scraping at the locks gently. "Oh, I would."

"Then _tell_ them!" He snarls. _"Tell_ them about you, and about me, and about _everything._ " His sonic jabs at the Doctor's throat, and you lean back to close your eyes again, head tilted up as you breathe steadily.

"There's nothing to say." You sing. "Except for a boy who wasn't happy enough for his two best friends."

He snarls. "That's _not_ what happened!"

"Yes, it is," You make a face, eyes still closed. "I don't get what all this fuss is about."

"All the fuss? _Me?"_ He throws a look at the Doctor- can you _believe_ it?- and turns to you, his face inches away from yours as his eyes drill into yours. "Says poor little Hope, in love with an adulterer."

“He’s not an adulterer.” You deny, instantly, your eyes snapping open. Letting out a laugh. “We’re not even married, you dick.” 

He giggles excitedly, the sonic buzzing in his hand. “Oh, so he didn’t tell you. Did he even hint at what happened between him and Rose Tyler? Did your precious _Jack_ ever tell you?"

He is lying, but you cannot help but steal a glance at the Doctor, his old face weathered with desperation. And then at Jack, his face solemn across the room. Not denying anything. Oh, well. You expected it.

Ever since he'd started to treat you like that, you'd expected it. That's the way all people are. Can't trust them.

“Don’t...” he whispers. “Master...”

"Should I do it?" The Master says, leaning down to speak into the Doctor's ear. "Should I do it?"

You throw him a look. "I'm not stupid. I know he slept with someone  that wasn't me."

The Master cackles. "Rose Tyler herself."

You don’t speak, your eyebrow raised as your eyes flicker between him and the Doctor, watching them both. Telling him to say more.

"So what's your excuse, hmm?" He whispers dramatically, and rolls the Doctor's wheelchair towards you. "Come on, give her one. You always have one up your sleeve, yes?" Wincing slightly as the medic rolls the bandage around his wound. "Give your lovely, _loyal_ Hope something to think about."

You look up at the Doctor, and slowly, a smile forms on your face, drowsy smile with hooded eyes. "OK." You say, "Tell me."

The Doctor's eyes look at yours, and almost like a confirmation, drops down to his lap.

_Huh._

“My point is, Hope,” he says, striding over to you, “In the end he’ll just let you down. Like the others." He waves his hand and there is the cock of a gun; you look up to see the prisoners all being ushered out, Jack the last to leave, his eyes fixed on yours.

"But you won't let me down." You speak, finally, your eyes fixed on his face. "You won't ever let me down."

He snorts. "What is that supposed to mean? Accept it, _Hope,_ I've _won._ "

You shake your head, and your hand comes up to touch your face, running over your features as you smirk. "Not as long as you care. No, you won't." Predictable. Everyone is.

The whole world _relies_ on it. You can survive on predictability. Everyone is predictable.

"Won't what?" He snarls, and louder; "Won't _what?"_

You give him a deadpan look. "What do you think my wrist was doing, dangling all the way?"

That's when he seems to come to his senses; his eyes snap up, at your hand, but you're already free from the cuff, taking out the two guards with duck and a well-placed clip to the temple. The third swings towards you but you reach down leisurely and grab his arm, wrenching it into the cuff.

"This will never work." The Master says, and he is laughing. Laughing like his life depends on it. "Oh, poor, deluded, _stupid_ Hope. How do you think you're going to get out of here alive?"

You don't give so much as a look at him, rubbing blood back into your arm as you turn and walk out.

"Because you won't shoot me."


	32. Countdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments, they light up my day :)  
> Enjoy this chapter too and let me know your opinions in the comments below!

You pause in front of the huge chain gates, stooping to catch a breath.

All three guards are knocked out, splayed out on the floor. You'd dealt with them as discreetly as you could, tried not to use violence. They _have_ to be guarding something important. There's barely two around the control rooms.

Reaching into your pockets, you dig out your sonic and hold it at the ready, tuning the settings up and down continuously; cautiously, you kick open the door, sonic pointed straight ahead.

_Not again._

"Finally dropped in for a visit, I see."

* * *

The Master is smiling. Grinning.

Oh, (Y/N). (Y/N) who's changed, (Y/N) who's different, (Y/N) he couldn't help. _Oh, (Y/N)._

The Doctor reaches out shakily, weakly, for his old fingers to touch the screen. The feed of his (Y/N), the (Y/N) he couldn't save, committing an act of violence he never would.

He couldn't save her, and he knows it's his fault. Of course it seems right- she did what most humans would think necessary, she took down the Master- but this isn't _her._ This isn't the (Y/N) he knows, who cast away her gun in anger, who swore not to use violence, who would die before reverting to her state, back in the war, again.

Something's happened. He's sure of it.

And it breaks both his hearts.

"What have you done to her?" He asks, even though he knows it is futile. The Master never tells, never forgives. That is the Master's purpose, and what sets him apart. "What did you do?"

"I assure you, _Doctor._ " He laughs. "I did nothing. She chose this, all on her own. One minute four seconds now," He adds, checking his watch with a smirk.

The Master has turned them all into monsters. Martha's family to kill, Jack to be killed, and him to watch, watch all of it as it goes down. But _(Y/N)-_ she wouldn't. This whole picture is wrong. It seems wrong, that usually caring face so devoid of emotion, those soulless eyes, ever since she regenerated. "No." He whispers. "You're lying."

"Oh, that's what _you_ would think."

Because it must be true, cant' it? It must be true that the Master did this, that (Y/n), _his_ (Y/N), didn't do this of her own free will. Because if she did, it's his fault, and his responsibility.

It's all on him.

_Again._

The picture frame on the screen seems to taunt him. _You couldn't help her. You made her into this. Your fault. All your fault._

(Y/N) (L/N)- his biggest failure. He could save the entire planet Earth from a fleet of Daleks, but he couldn't stay with her. She is it, the one thing he couldn't save. His own life.

But he has to hope, for the best. Even when she's thrown away Hope because she does't think she deserves it, he needs to be with her, to stay with her, to believe that somehow, in a sick, twisted way, the Master was behind all this, orchestrating. That this scene before him isn't (Y/N)'s own free will.

"What are you thinking about?" The Master whispers into his ear, and laughter erupts from him once again. "That _I_ did this? Because you _know_ it's not true. You're just rejecting it because she's your precious (Y/N), that simple human name, and she's _dead._ There's only that... that _killer_ instinct left, you know?" Gesturing widly with his hands. "She's back to point one and it's your fault, Doctor. If only you hadn't left her like that... if only you'd paid more attention to her... if only you hadn't thrown your chance away with Rose Tyler... if only you'd caught those _killer_ signs."

He shakes his head. "She isn't a killer. She promised."

"No, she _didn't!"_ The Master explodes, and his hands dig into the old man's shoulders. "That's the problem. She never did! _Always,_ you take her for granted, don't you?"

No. _No,_ he doesn't.

But he does, doesn't he? That's exactly what made her into this- the person on the video feed, so prone to violence- just the fact that he hadn't listened to her. She'd told him, about her dreams, about how her mental health was deteriorating, about how everything was going wrong, but he simply hadn't _listened._

And now he's left with a mess on his hands that's nothing but his.

_Yes._ He does. He does take her for granted, too much.

* * *

"Jack." You exclaim, breathlessly, as you enter the room.

The mist from the vents are steaming up, turning your vision a blurry scarlet, but you can still make out the rugged form of your favourite Time Agent. He seems to be strung up like a turkey, chained up to posts on either side, and he is watching you wearily, the expression matching his dusty face and clothes perfectly as you step forwards. "Jack." You repeat, and hurry towards him when he jolts back. You stop in your tracks.

"(Y/N)." He greets, his eyes watching you like a hawk. You throw him a questioning glance and reach out but he shakes his head, telling you to stay where you are. "Don't move."

Oh, darling. You _really_ don't have time for this.

"Jack, I have one minute, eight seconds seconds and counting, _listen-_ "

"No, (Y/N), _you_ listen." His eyes are drilling into you, trying to penetrate the shield you've set up. "I don't believe that shit about you backstabbing the Doctor, I _know_ you, I know how much you love him, but you've got to have a reason. I can't _trust_ you." He shakes his locks out of his eyes, still watching you. "You won't betray the Doctor. I know who you are."

You glower at him. "Does everything have to be about the Doctor?"

His mouth opens and then closes again, apparently unable to say. You head towards him, ignoring his insistence for you to stay away, and tiptoe up to reach his left wrist, aiming your sonic at the cuffs.

"What do you think you're doing?" He asks, frowning. The whine of the sonic drifts and integrates into the background humming of the engine, something you can understand. Mechanics and technology and pure science. You concentrate on that, getting him out of these godforsaken chains.

"I'm getting you out of here." Your eyes flicker up to him, and then you activate your sonic, buzzing your way clean through the lock. "What do you think I'm doing, making tea for the Dalek Empire?"

He gives you a look. "You still haven't answered me, (Y/N)."

You're spared from answering by the cuff snapping open. Eyes fixed on the cuffs, you move onto his right as he takes his left arm and rolls it. Probably the most activity he's gotten in a few weeks. "Do I have to have a reason?" Flashing him a toothy grin, you give your slightly dysfunctional sonic a shake before reactivating it.

"I can't trust you if you won't talk straight. Tell me why you're doing this. You could have stayed by the Master, watched us decay. I _need_ to know, (Y/N). What are your intentions?"

You smile as the last cuff clicks open, watching as he squares his shoulders, loosening up his muscles; you're just about to make your way out when he grabs your arm.

"(Y/N)." He repeats.

"We won't get shot, if you're wondering." You shake his hand off. Making your way over to the wired control panel of the door, you rip out several wires with a grin as the air fills with burning copper. "I've made sure of that. We have one minute-" Glancing at Jack's watch; _"Fifty-six_ seconds now- until the Master sends a fresh wave of guards after us. A squadron, at the least. Rubber bullets and stun guns, nothing much. Now come on."

"No."

Surprised, your eyes flicker over to him before you realize what he's said- that's when you chuckle, patting his shoulder; "Mate, that Torchwood-boss attitude isn't going to work on me."

"I'm not pulling a Torchwood attitude. I'm just not leaving until you tell me why." He crosses his arms, fully clad in the coat again as he raises his chin to stare at you defiantly. The Jack you've always known.

You snort. "Yes, obviously."

"I'm not joking, (Y/N)." He snaps. Something about those eyes... honestly, they kind of remind you of a Time Lord's. Eyes too old for the body.

"All right, fine. Is _because_ _you're cute_ an acceptable answer?"

_"What?"_

You give him a disbelieving look. "I can't explain right now. If you don't want to die, _again,_ follow me, because honestly, we really don't have time for this." You smirk at his stuttering to grab hold of his wrist, pulling him along easily. The door is ajar and you pull it open to push Jack through. Hurrying on, you check your watch before making your way past a guard. "Thirty-six seconds now."

"Why would he give us two minutes? (Y/N), you're not talking straight." He says, but follows you anyway, your hand grasping his.

You are running, but for him, it looks as though it is more of a leisurely jog. He wonders how it is possible for someone to be at such ease doing... well, _anything_. "You know, you didn't have to be so violent."

"What?"

"Oh, come on." You grin as you turn back towards him. "The rest of us are all pacifists. Who else would stab someone like that? Although, I'm incredibly impressed. Torchwood certainly did a lot of research on Time Lord anatomy- going for the shoulder. Cluster of nerves. I didn't know you knew so much, but then again you _are_ Torchwood. Certainly did your research." Shoving a door shut behind you, you turn to what you remember is the way to the equipment room and take a look behind your shoulder as you throw him a gun. "Keep watch."

He holds the gun in his hands numbly, and that's when he speaks up; "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, come on." You flash him a pretentious smile. "It's very obvious. Torchwood style. Go for the kill. Obviously, you failed, but still maimed him pretty badly. Not the method I would use, but still."

He watches you for a few moments before he gets what you're talking about; then, he gives you a brief look before shooting at the guard- laser and stun mode, nothing harmful. "The Master? I thought you did that." He frowns, looking down at you with confusion etched in his face. "He said you turned against him. That was what he meant, right?"

You pause, brain whirring.

"Yeah, I was just messing with you." Shaking your head. You plunge your hand inside the door circuit, ignoring the way the electricity bites at your skin, and pull out the wire connecting the door before giving it a buzz of your sonic. "Don't know what came over me, I'm usually such a sweet little girl."

He gives you a disbelieving scoff. You blow him a kiss.

"Anyways," You continue, "Twenty-eight seconds. If only I can find the wire connecting the door to the rest of the mechanism, I can-"

"You weren't joking." He notes, pumping a round of electricity into an unsuspecting guard. That's when he turns to you, scanning you for any sign of a lie. "His shoulder... if you didn't do it, then who did?"

Your eyes flicker to his, until you turn back to the mechanism with a cough; "Ugh. This does't exactly have _labels,_ Peter Pan from Neverland." You snort, giving up to just rip out a bunch of wires. The doors slide open and you grab Jack by his suspenders, pulling him through. "If you're trying to make a system Time-Lord proof, you don't exactly give it labels and a little handbook."

"Stop chanaging the subject! About you going to his side, his wound, the Doctor- you're not telling me _anything."_ He spreads his arms, eyes angry, at you- you're just about to respond when the speakers crackle and a gleeful voice erupts from them.

"Bickering like an old married couple, are you? I'm not sure you have time for that."

You check your wristwatch and turn back to Jack, hurriedly; "My vortex manipulator. It's gotta be here somewhere..."

He gives you a sideways glance before returning to the search without another word.

_Ten seconds._ You dig into the crate of boxes and your mouth forms the biggest grin possible as you lift out the dark strap, refastening it around your wrist. "Jack!"

He doesn't question you. That, you're thankful for. Jack is that kind of man, and you love him for that.

Instead, his hand comes to yours, and with a mutual glance, you press the button.


	33. Running

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yum

Loosely, you run your finger over your bottom lip gently as you watch the codes flicker by on your computer screen. Making sure nothing's out of order, your eyes follow the code and transmit it to your brain, but your mind is elsewhere, encased in a world where none of this exists. In a world where you're left to yourself.

A mind palace, maybe. Or a memory lane.

You frown and your finger halts, tapping on the torn skin of your lip.

Your brain is whirring, whirring with seven hundred years' worth of knowledge, calling up everything and anything you'd learnt to try to think of reasons. You can't think of any, but you refuse the fact, instead choosing to keep thinking. Thinking is rational, logical, one straight answer. That's the way things are, and that's the way you've believed things for so long.

But your thoughts, for the first time, aren't getting you _anywhere._

Split-personality disorder? Possession? Short-term amnesia? Psychopathic tendencies? Schizophrenia?

No, no, no. You need facts, evidence. There's no guarantee that all of these are viable on Time Lord standards too. They work different, therefore must be different. Process of elimination.

Typing in several new lines of codes, you reach over to the second laptop and hack into the UNIT systems, bringing up everything they have on Time Lord. Your race had done research on themselves just like humans had done, you've gotten further, but you're a mechanic, a technician, a researcher, and a scientist. You're not a psychologist.

Psychology. You would have laughed at the thought. You hate it; analysing people's minds? Absolute bullshit. There's no way to properly analyze a person as everyone thinks different, there are more cases of trial and error in psychology than anything else because there are so many outliers. Everyone depends on themselves. Back on Gallifrey when you'd still been a student, you'd refused to read up on the subject on the basis that it was ridiculous. Now you wish you've fulfilled your knowledge better.

It isn't a fact, more of a possibility. One that you're not going to let go.

Does it have anything to do with the fact that for the first time in your life, your eyes aren't green or grey but _amber?_ Probability and statistics.

There hadn't been a case of this that you'd found. Chemicals in the brain. Maybe it had been due to your regeneration being postponed and you having so less time to rest. The regeneration could have meddled with the chemicals in your brain. Most times regenerations are healthy, but sometimes there are mutations, from the time you'd briefly dated a medic. He'd told you about a lot of instances- amputated limbs being integrated into the process, from smaller things like baldness to bigger ones like missing a few teeth or aging more than you should. If there'd been cases of physical injury, why not anything mental?

Tapping your finger against the table, you note the scarring on your tan skin, the one's you've had ever since you'd signed up for the war. For you, these scars never heal, but that's an easy explanation; the weapons there had been technologically speaking much more advanced.

Frown deepening, your finger lightly traces one of the biggest ones, a nasty patch on the crook of your arm when you'd been trapped in the middle of a Dalek fleet.

There is an explanation for that. But not for the... _other_ thing. Improper medication? Too much strain? Stress? Regeneration whilst stuck in a time vortex? Any of these things could be viable, too many variables crossed together all at once. You couldn't _experiment_ on yourself now, could you?

Or maybe you could. Enough help, enough variables eliminated through trial and error and you could find out the cause.

Spinning around in your chair, you note the codes steadily creeping across the screen before tying in something else, an extra few lines. Nothing wrong with it so far. If it all goes to plan, it will turn out pretty well.

You've just reached up to ruffle your still-damp hair and comb it roughly when behind you, a voice says jokingly, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."

Without so much as a turn of your head, you keep typing with a smirk; "No doubt. This computer is lovely."

"Yeah, good thing I stole it." You turn as you finish off the line of code, spinning around in your office chair to face him. Behind you, Jack stands against the doorway- he's since taken off his coat and shirt, revealing nothing but a T-shirt and suspenders underneath, and his hair is all over the place. You laugh at the sight.

"Don't guilt-trip me, Peter Pan. Good nap?"

"Better than yours." He teases with a laugh, and draws up a spare chair next to you, sitting down. "You've been at this all night?"

"A cold shower." You tilt your head. "Two. Helps me think. Other than that, yeah. Got a problem?" Teasingly, you raise your fists to mock punching his shoulder. He dodges easily and grins at you; rolling your eyes at that ever-so-flirtatious grin, you grab one of his suspenders and pull it hard. It smacks against his chest with a _twang_. _"Stop_ that!"

"Ow. Stop what?"

"That." You smirk at him, turning to the computer with a notable smile. "You know what I'm talking about. Anyways, about the code- I need five more days. A week, if I'm unlucky. But I'm brilliant, so five." Flashing him a grin, your fingers drum at the keyboard rapidly as you peer at it desperately.

It's sunset soon- you need to get as much done as possible.

"Five days is a lot of time."

"So is a month. I spent a month trying to appeal to my once-best friend but now evil bastard so that I could get myself free. Five days is nothing." You stick your tongue out at him and reach over to press _Enter._

"Alright." Jack, from besides you, gives you a pointed look before shrugging. "So where exactly are we? You don't own a house, do you?" He picks up an antique from the table and your hand flies out to grab it from his reach, setting it down next to you. A pointed look: _don't disrespect the dead._

"London." You say, without looking up, and smile to yourself as the laptop restructures your code. Automatic system. Makes things easier, not to mention untraceable. "Random person's home. It's empty, so I'm guessing they're either in a labour camp or dead. I'd prefer the latter; that picture on the fridge seems real happy."

He walks over, grabs the picture. You've taken a look at it already: a redheaded woman and her white-haired granddad. Going by the name of Donna Noble, based on the driver's license tossed on the table, and from the name written on the stack of papers, Wilfred Mott and Sylvia Noble.

Overall quite a cute home. You tap your fingers against the polished mahogany table, peering at the sleek laptop.

"So what's our plan?" He asks. "We're just going to... what, lie here until all goes to hell?"

You point a finger up in the sky. "No. About that. Get me a box of Froot Loops."

"Your plan depends on a box of Froot Loops?"

You throw him an exasperated look. He shakes his head with a laugh, reaching up on the cabinet to grab the said box and toss it to you. Catching it neatly, you rip the box open to pour a dozen of them into your mouth at a time. Oh, that is good. You should have more cereal. You like cereal.

Your favourite food, cereal. Yum.

Jack reaches into the fridge, adjusts the picture carefully before grabbing a water bottle out of the kitchen. Setting it down on the table right next to the laptop, he collapses into the chair: "You've got your food, now tell me the plan."

"Going too fast is unattractive, Harkness." Playfully, you reach out to grab his suspenders and pull him towards you.

"Hey, hey. Concentrate. End of the world, remember? Everyone's being tortured and killed." He reminds, tucking your hair behind your ear gently. You watch as he crosses hims arms and leans back on the chair to give him a scowl.

"OK, OK, fine." You stick another mound of colorful cereal in your mouth. "This- the thing I'm writing here-" Gesturing to the sleek silver computer- "It's a virus. Well, it's not. Except it is. Except not exactly. Except it kind of is. Kind of, but also kind of not. Depends on your vantage point, really."

He frowns. "How can it be a virus but not a virus?"

"Told you, depends on it. It's a virus that blows stuff up, but it also saves the world."

"Except the Master and the Valiant aren't _computers."_

You spin around in your chair, setting the box of cereal down onto your lap, and lean back to press your hands against the back of your head, grinning. "Yes, but the TARDIS is."

His eyes dart back and forth, processing the information; he catches up quickly, eyes widening; "Oh! You are _brilliant._ "

"Oh, yes." You point towards the USB inserted into your computer. "That is where the code will be. Our mission will take place in six days from now: break into the Valiant, make our way into the Paradox Machine, insert this in as the virus rewrites the TARDIS and wipes it blanker than a clean slate, and everything goes back to normal."

"Simply, you're going to revert the TARDIS back."

"Exactly. Hopefully, everything will go back to normal." You pick up the box, pop another one in your mouth. The sweetness explodes in your mouth, coating your tongue and teeth like paint. It doesn't taste so good anymore, after what you're going to say. After what you're _planning_ to say.

"But, of course, like every famous planet-level heist, there is a catch."

Raising his eyebrows, Jack gives you a look- _go on._

"When I insert the USB, I'll have three seconds to get out of there till all goes to hell. Then it goes into security protocol 2, lock-down mode, and the whole place is deadlocked until the whole reboot is finished. By reboot, I mean internal destruction."

"Which means?" He demands. You open your mouth to give him a smirk, a joke, a smart remark; but his eyes are on yours, and it says you shouldn't. You just... shouldn't.

Any situation. Just not now.

"I'll die." You say, quietly. "For the last time. The newly formed TARDIS will suck up all my Artron energy and prohibit me from regenerating. It'll be the death of me." There is no lying, no joke, no punchline, no incentive to laugh. Not this time, because you know this _will_ be the end. But still, you can't help but bury your face in your hands and stifle the laughs choking from your throat. "I'm going to die. I'm going to fucking die."

"No, no, no. You won't. I won't let you." He says, and his hand comes to grab yours, holding on tight; 'You're not allowed to and that's an order. You won't."

"Oh, yes I will." You reach over to grab your Froot Loops, stuffing another handful in your mouth. "You can't stop me. I'm going down as a fucking here. Look-" Snapping your fingers; _"I am Iron Man."_

_"What?"_

"Or is that 2019?" Shrugging. "The point is, you really don't need to worry."

"No, you can't!" He protests. "Stop taking this as a joke. The Doctor needs you, and so does the world. You can't go in there. I'll-" Snatching away your box of cereal- "I'll go instead. I can survive."

"Except you can't." You point out. "The TARDIS gave you immortality, I'm pretty sure it's a piece of cake to take it away again. And before you go on a fight about value, you're a _Captain._ I'm a Doctor. Outranked." You watch as his expression changes, keeps changing, like he doesn't know _what_ to say. Why? You don't get why he won't save his own hide and insists on doing this _for_ you. If you were in his position, you would shrug and let him... right?

Yes, of course you would.

"So your point is?" He asks, tightly. You look towards him to see his jaw clenched, muscles tense. Hands tightened into pale fists.

"Just let me die in peace, will you." You snort. "I mean, this is saving the world. No better way to go."

"Will you _stop!_ " Jack snaps. Startled, your eyes snap up at him only to see his face stormy, palms flat on the table as he glowers down at you. "You are not dying, and you are not sacrificing yourself." The last words eat away at you like acid, resonating in your head: "Not if I have anything to say about it."

_Not if I have anything to say about it._

Funny, that's exactly the last thing you'd said to the Doctor before going to war.

You give him a stare-down, long and hard, but you know you can't because unlike what you're willing to admit you've sort of grown a soft spot for the con-man with a cool vortex manipulator. And you hate soft spots.

"Discuss this tomorrow." You say, flicking a Froot Loop at him, and although you grin at him you can feel it, that guilt in your stomach. You feel it all the time. You hate it.

He gives you one final scathing look and remarks, "No wonder the Master left you. Can't blame him."

Something inside you snaps.

"Hey, what the hell is that supposed to mean?" You say, and a sneer is on your lips, your pupils losing focus as his backside grows blurrier. Knocking your chair down, you stand up, stuffing your fingers into the pockets of your new bomber jacket to clench them tightly. "Jack Harkness, running away again? As always? Tell me, what are you running from, exactly?"

"You." He spits, and the door slams shut behind him, rocking on its hinges. You clench and unclench your fists, blinking red away from your vision.

Better get back to work.


	34. Sort Things Out

Idly, you prop your hand on your chin to run your finger gently against the barrel of Jack's gun, feeling the sleek onyx metal under your fingertips. The computer is still up and running, figures and figures of code rushing across the screen in front of your eyes.

D-2 until your death.

It's very stupid, really, how concerned the two of you have been. It's not like you're going to _succeed_ or anything- in fact, you'd say the odds were immensely against you. There's no reason to be concerned yet if you have a bigger chance of failing than not, and to be fair, if you fail, it's all the same whether you're alive or not. Both ways you'll end up tortured.

Snorting, you pick up the gun and examine it. It's a familiar weight and you can imagine how it feels, one swift movement to do something you can't ever take back. Six shots in the chamber, small handgun. Not too hard. Lightweight.

So this is what Torchwood is. Like you and the Doctor, but with guns.

You're positive, though, that they do exactly what Jack claims them to do. You trust him at least that much. He'd told you he'd been placed somewhere in Cardiff- most likely because of the rift, you'd been there in the 1970s and had an unfortunate incident involving the Judoon and a teleportation pod- with four or five other members. _Friends,_ he'd called them.

Must be nice. Having friends.

Because when you think about it, you don't have any. You have Tim, whom you'd visited briefly before he'd died, and you have Jack, but that's all you have. You're always alone. Always with the Doctor.

Is it the _Doctor_ who makes you like that? Because every time, _all_ the time, when you're not with him, you seem to be doing quite well on your own. Broken inside, but well. But when you come even an inch nearer to him, when you want to be with him, you're only left with two choices. Him or the world.

Why do you choose _him,_ all the time?

But it's OK, you think. You have yourself and you're fine with yourself.

Grinning broadly at the thought, you press the heel of your hand against the cold machine, jolting it back to load the barrel. Your right palm grips against it but you hardly let out a wince as the bullet wound screams in protest. Instead, you ignore the scratchy bandage wound around and the pain flaring up, raising your arm to aim at the wall opposite you.

Like a lie, the whispers return. Strings of words pressing against the fabric of your very being, hushed breaths suggesting unimaginable things into your ear. Bloodthirsty creatures roaming inside of you.

_Kill,_ they tell you. _Let their blood drench you. Let it be good._

Almost as if in a trance, you raise your arm and aim at the wall, imagining them. Imagining the Daleks and the Cybermen and a hundred other beings that had drawn out your anger among others.

_Kill._ You pull the trigger. A bang and the door slams open, your friend jolting visibly as he stares at the hole in the plaster.

"I go take a shower for ten minutes and this is what happens." Jack laughs. "What are you doing?"

You tilt your head. "Just remembering." Smirking, you toss him the gun. "What, scared there for a sec, Harkness?" He chuckles, placing the safety pin back on the gun and said gun onto the table.

He drops the towel onto the chair and comes to land on the chair next to you, again. "So how far has it gotten?"

"Good news. Or bad news, whatever way." You point to the computer. "I told you there were three days left, right? I estimate about one and a half now. There was this whole chunk of algorithm I removed because the variables- the point is," You say, coughing; "It does't really matter, we're almost there."

"OK. So we'll get going in..." He crosses his arms, thinking. "Funny thing, I don't even know what day it is anymore." He watches your face, looking slightly perturbed as he most likely counts in his mind. "Friday?"

Smirking at his confusion, you check the date on the computer; "Saturday. We'll get going on Saturday. Then we can go save the world better than the Doctor ever could. Oh, he'll get _so_ jealous."

"What?"

Without so much as a glance at him, you tap your fingers against the USB, thinking; "I said, he'll get jealous."

You turn towards him, expecting a reply, but all you're met with is the sight of him deep in thought, frowning, stagnant. An unreadable expression on his face. "Jack?"

He seems to shake out of his stupor then, turning towards you with that look, again. "The Doctor."

"What about him?"

"You meant it, didn't you?"

You can anticipate what he's going to say. Doesn't mean you like it. That smile still plastered onto your face, you stack your legs up on the table, examining the new- _stolen-_ trainers. "Formal shoes are not for me, don't you agree? I was thinking, when this is all over, maybe Converse. Or tennis shoes. Or maybe," You muse, looking at your feet, "Boots. I thought I saw a nice Timberland store down there by the mall."

"Him." He continues, ignoring you. The patience of a leader, you suppose. "You still love the Doctor."

You throw him a glance, snorting into your palm as you type on your laptop. "Don't be stupid. I told you I wasn't. When this is all over, I'm _so_ ditching this homeless girl look." When he's silent, you turn towards him, tilting your head. "What, Harkness?"

He is staring at you with an astounded look, one of absolute disbelief, and you begin to wonder what exactly made him like this so when out of his mouth escapes five words: "You still feel something for him."

"I told you, I don't love the Doctor anymore."

Jack's eyes are on you, something strange. Something you can't quite make out. An expression- "Not the Doctor."

No, no. You laugh. No, you don't. "I don't know what you're talking about. And honestly," Adding, purposely turning your chair away from him towards the computer where you restructure the code; "That secretary look wasn't helping either. I think I'll go for more of a chic look this time."

"The Master." He says, and he is scanning you with accusing eyes. Like he's figured something out. "I know that face."

"Oh, of course." You snort. Of course. He's Mister Torchwood, he can tell what's wrong with you just by the look on your face. "Oh, yes, of course. And what would that be? I'm secretly in love with him and is a triple agent? We're _star-crossed lovers_ caught on the wrong side, is it? It's not like I stabbed him or anything." Laughing. "Oh, you're funny."

As soon as you blurt out the words, you realize your mistake: you've gotten a bit too sensitive. There is no change in his expression, no waver of emotion, but there is a hint of something. Something- human emotions are _so hard-_

"You feel sorry for him."

You shoot him a glance and realize to your utmost surprise he seems fully serious; a snort escaping your mouth, you shake your head. “If you’re trying to be funny, it’s not working.” 

“I’m absolutely serious.” He crosses his arms, lifting his chin to look at you with something like  defiance . “You still like him.” 

“He tortured you. I don’t like people who torture my friends.” Learning down to brush a finger against your sneakers. “I like Martha, for instance. I like you. I do  not,  however, like the Master.” Flipping the sonic out of your pocket, you activate it sharply to take a look at the readings. “Oh, blimey. I think I stepped on-“ 

“It’s easy to tell when you’re lying, and right now, you’re lying.” 

“Oh, and how would you know that?” You smirk, mimicking his tone of voice: “I wonder if you have a crush on me to notice me that bad. Aww, does Mister Torchwood have a crush on the alien?” 

He crosses his arms, looking away. “Stop.” 

“Of course, Mister Torchwood. No problem, Mister Torchwood.” 

“No, really.” 

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Obviously.” 

“I’m not joking!” He hisses, turning to you. “Shut up!” 

You’ve never seen him use that tone of voice on you. So you shut up. 

He is listening to something, something that you can hear, too, now that you are silent. Buzzing. Frequency suggests something roughly the size of a human head. Circular. Round. Disturbance in the air, slight metal. Hovering some six feet above the air. 

_Spherical?_

“Jack.” You say, leaning over to whisper into his ear. “Sphere. Some hundred meters near us. Coming towards the house.” 

Slowly, he nods, reaching over to take hold of his gun. You, on the other hand, your brain is whirring faster than a TARDIS in flight. Metal. Sphere. Electronic? No, no, mechanical. Technology is your area, you know how to defeat this thing. No EMPs—worst case scenario, it attracts more attention. You’ll be captured anyway. No chance of running; the laptop, your only chance, is there. Chinks in the outer shell, none. You don’t have enough electricity to fry a house, and there’s no chance you can get to the bathroom in time to concoct something from the chemicals you’ve hidden there. 

Booby traps. That is what you need. 

Unfortunately, that is also what you do not have. You smack your forehead with the palm of your hand, leaning down to clutch your screwdriver against your chest. Think, think, _think._

You hear the draft of wind increasing speed towards the Nobles’ house and then there is a  _crash!_

They’re in. Through the window, second bedroom, by the slight draft. You’ve got to think. Pulling Jack down under the table, you cup your hand against his ear, hissing; “Buy me time. It’s in the bedroom.” 

Jack glances at you, and then nods, cocking his gun. Both hands on the weapon, he gives you a reassuring glance before sprinting up to the bedroom like a CIA agent. The sight is so movie-like you want to laugh. 

Chewing at your lip, you crouch down to cup the sonic in your hands, shushing it as you watch the settings. Grabbing the laptop, you swipe the codes to another tab before hacking into the government. Something must be up on there. Blueprints for the spheres, maybe. Backup plan in case they turn on him.

Glancing towards the bedroom. You can hear talking—good, Jack’s buying you time, trying to converse with it—so instead you turn back towards the computer to see  _nothing._

Fuck. You turn back to your sonic screwdriver. Only one choice left now to save both your skins: the EMP.

Does't matter if it'll get you spotted; you'd taken a look at the algorithm and it'd been almost finished anyway. OK, maybe that's a bit of a lie- a day, or two, but still. You tap the sonic against your thigh, giving it a jiggle before sidling up to the door. Jack has finished talking- in fact, there's no sound at all.

_Jack!_

Kicking the door open, you aim your sonic at whatever's in front of you to shout, "Get away from the body!"

Just like you'd expected, Jack is on the floor, torn to shreds; what you hadn't anticipated is the _smell._ The stink of blood and gore reaches your nostrils and you wrinkle your nose- the iron stench is too familiar to you, it's just that you don't exactly enjoy it either- instead heading slowly towards the buzzing sphere, a spike of annoyance and anger prodding at you. Of course he'll live again; but to kill him so painfully and horrifically.

"The girl is here!" The sphere buzzes. "(Y/N) (L/N). The girl who saved us all." It makes a horrific creaking noise and with a jolt, you realize what it is-

It's _laughing._

Rolling your eyes, you glance down at Jack- already healing, a few more minutes should do it- before giving the sphere a lazy smile. "Oh, yes. Let me guess; The Master is the man who saved you all?"

"No," The sphere hums, the blades around it retracting; "The Doctor and his Hope saved us all~ The Doctor and his Hope saved us all~"

Laughing, you slick back your hair with your hands, ignoring how the blood stains your locks dark mahogany. "So what? You're going to kill us? Give you a little cookie for still being alive? You want a medal for everything you did? For turning my own house into a deadly human killing machine?"

"We have no need of little cookies and medals." It snickers. "We need the Master."

You laugh. "You sound like a clingy ex. I should know."

It ignores your last statement, beginning to advance towards you. You shift the settings on your sonic more and more until you reach exactly what you want- in a second, an invisible wave rips through the air in a half-mile radius. The lights flicker and with a final heave turn off, plunging you in total darkness with nothing but a _thud_ of a sphere dropping to the floor.

As quickly as you can, you head towards the former sound to kneel, groping blindly for a hint of the mechanical item. Your hand snags a cold, curved surface and you grab at it hurriedly, feeling the ridges and confirming that it is, in fact, a sphere. And oh, yes, it is.

Good. It should be over soon. You have to believe it’s over soon.

Attempting to let out a smile, you jam your sonic into the hole at the top you’d noticed while conversing and send a second smaller shockwave through the machine, cutting off all systems save for basic life support and speech, tucking it under your arm. With the other hand, you pat at the floor blindly, feeling around to find the familiar body of Jack Harkness you’d seen some two meters away from you. You’re not alone, of course. You have Jack. Jack Harkness. He should be somewhere southeast to you… a bit left… disturbance in the draft… _there._

Thank god. You’re not alone.

Your fingers tap out the unconscious leg of your favourite con man and you work your way up from there, climbing up from the edge of his coat to his shoulder to his head, blindly hitting his nose as you let out a nearly inaudible but relieved breath.

“That hurts, you know.” A voice says from beneath your hand, and you fight down a scream of surprise, instead giving a relieved laugh.

“Pain is good.” You state, trying to calm yourself more than you’re assuring Jack. Safe. Dark but not alone. “Pain means you’re alive. You _are_ alive…?”

“Last time I checked, yeah.” He reaches up and his hand lands on your back; usually you’re not prone to contact but now you’re more than thankful—as well as reassured—by it. “You all right?”

It takes you a moment to remember how to talk.

“Yeah, fine.” You say. “The lights should turn back on in a few seconds.” You wait for the lights to prove you right but nothing happens; glancing up in annoyance, you hold onto his shoulder with a tightness you didn’t know you had.

The dark. You hate it.

He hums in acknowledgement. “Exactly what _did_ you do?” He asks.

Oh, you know what he’s doing. Trying to calm you. He obviously notices something’s up; you can’t say it’s effective, but, you note, but he’s quite observant. “Electromagnetic Pulse. A small one, half a mile radius, but it might have brought up some attention. Made sure to save everything on the computer. The sphere is over there, I just disconnected all the wires save for—”

You’re abruptly cut off as his fingers slide to your neck and pull you down for a kiss.

You kiss him back, pulling away in surprise to note that you can now see his face; Jack is watching you in humour as you frown, processing the information that’s poured into your brain. Slowly, you mutter, “You kissed me.”

“Captain Jack Harkness.” Is all he offers as an explanation. You laugh but punch his arm anyway; “I never gave you my permission.”

“I didn’t ask.” He clarifies, jokingly, and clutches your arm as he heaves himself up. “Now, want to go dissect a sphere?”

“Oh, _fuck_ yes.”


	35. Last Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I miss y'alllllllllllllll  
> Let me know how you feel about (Y/N) and Jack... I've actually been hinting at this for a pretty long time so xD

You lie in the dark, eyes open, your hand like an assurance on your chest as you trace the ring of metal lying against your chest. It gives off a faint glimmer from the faint blue light of the PC and your fingers idly turn it over as you examine the sleek silver upon green.

It's not _silver,_ not really. And neither is it an emerald.

He'd told you this story, so many times- but only because you'd asked him to. When he'd been tracing Gallifreyan circles onto your hip and his kisses had adorned your face, he'd recounted the story you asked him to tell every night. The story of how far he traveled to get you that goddamn ring.

He'd traveled to the heart of a dying star, to the best forgers in the world, he'd said. He'd asked them for a band of the most precious metal they could find, one that would fit anyone of any size, one that would never, ever, rust. He'd paid them in time and Time only. Then, he'd gone to the the top of Gallifrey and gotten you a white point star. It could be any colour of your choice, anything you'd like. But he'd chosen green because they were your eyes, and silver because they were your eyes.

When he'd finished telling the story, you'd turn to face him in the blankets, hair spilling down your face to create a hazy curtain, and you'd kiss the sleep out of him. That had been how bright you'd burnt. Once.

_Once._ That story, you'd loved it. You still do. You like it, of course, because it shows what kind of man he was.

Willing to die for those he loves.

He still is. You know he'd take your place, in a heartbeat, after you'd trampled on his heart like that; but, as a movie cliche once told you, it isn't him, it's you.

It might seem like an excuse, but it's true. The blanks in your mind like a wiped film, the horror his old form had portrayed, how you just can't seem to _understand._ You know what you are, after you've peeled away the layers of Time Lord and post-traumatic stress, you're just a cold girl who's utterly, utterly _alone._ Before, in your old form, you'd been able to help. Now you're just... _different._

You know what he said is true, and you know that you are. You won't be able to help the Doctor, not anymore. That's the reason you say you don't love the Doctor, and that's the reason you say you don't get it.

You remember what Nurse Redfern had said, had _warned_ you, so many years ago. _I did not ask whether you deserved to be with him or not; I asked whether you were confident that your story would end up a happy one._

Sliding your eyes shut, you cup the ring in your hands and bring it to your lips, feeling how the cool links of the necklace slide on your bare skin, and feeling the pads of your fingers brushing it.

Maybe Nurse Redfern had been right. You should visit her sometime, when you're free. Nineteen-fifty or sixty should do it. She'd be married by then, with child, and you'd just give her a surprise with your new face, you decide. Unless you're dead, then you won't have that kind of problem anymore.

_Death._ You're not scared of death. You're really not. You're scared that you'll be alone in death, and you'll be lost to those you love. You're scared that you'll never see them again, Jack, the Doctor, Martha, Sarah, Tim, everyone you've befriended over the years. You're afraid that after all you've done, you'll be pitifully and horribly _alone._

That's your big fear.

But the problem is, you don't want to tell anyone. Your last regeneration, (Y/N) the seventh, would be blubbering all over the place, confessing her everlasting love for the Doctor. She'd be more open about sharing her feelings, whatever that means.

But that- doing that, being that, that's selfish. That's selfish and so, _so_ stupid.

A grimace on your face, you sit up and push the blankets off you, rising from your bed to head towards the door (or where you'd last seen it)- reaching for the doorknob, you push it open, one hand still on the ring.

It's unfair to him, for you to keep it; you should return it. Sometime.

There is no one in the dark living room; not that you expected anyone to be there. Your finger transfers, from the chain with the ring on it to the other one. A pendant with one circular charm, the size of your thumb: written in circular Gallifreyan; one word.

These two are different, vastly so, but similar in weight of what it holds. The ring is light and inviting, but weighing you down, like chains binding your heart. Something you love, but something you feel guilt about. On the other hand, the necklace is an accusation you can never shake off, something that used to fill you with pride but something that's just... sad now. The guilt in the bottom of your stomach. The comfort that no longer brings comfort.

That heavy thought is in your mind as you collapse into the office chair, your hands rubbing your face dryly. Maybe it's because you're going to die soon, but you just can't seem to sleep.

Not that you need sleep. Not that you _want_ sleep, in fact. Maybe no sleep is a good thing, because every time your eyes slide shut you can see images ingrained in your memory, rehearsed a thousand, a million, infinite times just to remind you what a horrible fucking person you are. To remind you that you're supposed to be better than what you are right now, even though right now, this is who you are. To tell you that you've got to get this fixed right now, that you owe it to them. To everyone. Because you're a war criminal, a coward, and a psychopath.

In the dark, you can see your ring, glittering as ever, and your fingers trace the outer edge, entranced, the pads of your fingers rubbing against the clear diamond. Your fingers close around it and you murmur into the ring, your breath ghosting over it; _Doctor._

Oh, _Doctor._

You wish you're the only woman he loves, and you wish you are with him forever. But everyone knows that there is no happy ending with the Doctor. They all saw it, didn't they? Martha's family, Joan, everyone. They try to warn those who love him, but those who love him never answer. Even though you know him better than anyone, you can't.

Old High Gallifreyan, the lost language of the Time Lords. It could kill the most powerful beings, bring down civilizations, and that is exactly the reason why you are using it.

In a whisper, you cup the ring in your hands, bringing it to your mouth, and whisper words into it, things you want to say, things you regret not saying. Not too many- you hate sharing secrets- but enough to let him know you care. You whisper the things you want to tell him, and you whisper his name. Not _the Doctor_ , but his real name.

The ring glows, with power, with energy, with the knowledge of his name, and when you've finished, it seems to pulsate with a smile that only you can decipher.

Behind you then, the lights flicker on, and you turn with a raise of the eyebrow to see Jack standing there. He is standing there with a grin, arms crossed in front of his chest, dressed in his dress shirt and suspenders as usual.

"I didn't know you were a singer." He remarks.

You know what he's talking about the moment he says it. Many people have said it to you before. The lost language of Time Lords, Old High Gallifreyan, sounds like soft music and singing in ears of other races who do not speak it.

"Yeah, well, there are a lot of things you don't know about me, Jack Harkness." You say, offering him a smirk. The ring is still in your palm and you drop it, letting it fall on top of your chest and under your too big T-shirt as you watch him. "I thought you were asleep." Unlike you, he's human; he needs it. He can deal with it.

"Apparently not." He walks over to you, placing both hands on the shoulders of the office chair on either side of you, watching the finished algorithm sit on your computer patiently. "So tomorrow, huh."

You look at his hand and trace the fingers lazily. "Yeah, I guess." Reaching up to tilt his chin down with your finger, you give him a mischievous grin. "What, you gonna miss me?"

"I'll think about it." He remarks. "What were you singing? It sounded nice."

Your hand comes up, self-consciously, to touch your engagement ring. "Old High Gallifreyan. Lost language of the Time Lords." Thinking; how do you explain a lost language that's powerful enough to topple almighty civilizations and rise up the tiniest of creatures? "Think of it as spells, except the spells are a language. Thought of it?"

"Yeah, I get it."

"It's nothing like it." You deadpan. "But, if it makes you happy, then yes, it is kind of like that."

He gives you a confused look as you grin at him broadly. "No, don't be offended. The point is, you can't hear it unless you speak it. Which is actually quite counterproductive for the students. Which _was._ Whatever." Stacking your feet up on the table, you tilt your head back to look at Jack. "What?"

"You all right?"

Where would _that_ come from? You laugh, looking back at him as you finger the edges of your sleeves. "Obviously. Look at me, Peter Pan. I'm fine. Don't know why you keep asking that."

"No, not that." He says, and leaning down, pulls out the first aid kit from under the desk as he says in a very matter-of-fact way: "You forgot to change your bandages today and your hand is still bleeding."

Eyebrow raised, you look down at your hand, only to see dried blood crusting the bandage.

"Oh. Uhm... thanks."

He makes his way to sit down onto the chair besides yours. Taking your hand away from you, Jack removes the bandage clips as he begins to unwind the yellowed cloth from your hand. "If you're stubbornly insisting on dying tomorrow, this is the least I could do." He scoffs, and you watch, slightly amused at his misdirected anger as he pours cleansing alcohol onto the raw wound. It stings as it worms its way into the nerves of your hand.

You gasp, other hand tightening on Jack's shoulder, burying your face into his collar.

_"Ow."_ You hiss into his ear. "That _hurts,_ Harkness."

It doesn't disgust you, no. The only reason you're turning your head is because it just hurts.

"Sorry." He muses, but it's a mindless apology; the Captain's attention is solely directed on your hand as he cleans, applies medicine, and gripping the package between his free hand and his teeth, rips open the plastic to unravel a fresh roll of gauze. "(Y/N), I need you to sit still for this."

You nod, pulling away from him as you prop your chin up on your other hand. Watching him work. "Can I ask you a favour?"

He doesn't stop, gesturing for you to go on.

With one hand, you toss your hair back to remove the necklace with the ring. "This one," You say, holding it up, and he pauses to look up, taking in the details of the small band; "Tomorrow, if I die, give that to the Doctor."

"Oh, now we're going on with last wishes, then?" He jokes, holding a cupped hand out for it; you pour it, chain and all, into his much larger hand, watching as it disappears into the pocket of his coat hung up behind his chair. "If I die, name an island after me. You're a Time Lord; I'm sure you have that much power."

You snort. "Yes, I have just the planet for you. Insignificant, looks like a dumpster, yet attracts a lot of tourists. Not to mention not very big."

"Summed me up perfectly." He laughs, slicing the bandages off neatly. "Except for the small part." He looks up to wink at you with a grin before reaching for the clips.

Your fingers jolt and in an instant you find yourself dragging him away from them by the suspenders, pulling him down so that your mouth lands on his. You pull his face closer to yours by one arm, your other one still gripped in Jack's, and his breath hits your lips, sending a shiver down your spine.

Oh, you like this. You like this very much.

His hand freezes in midair before he leans down to retaliate, panting as his arm dips down lower to press you closer against him. The intimacy makes your heart pound and your insides burn.

It's been too long. His hand brushes your face and he seems to give up on your bandage, both his hands stripping the bomber jacket off you; you yank the straps of his suspenders down and grab at his belt loops, breaking away from him as you grin, fingers working away at the buttons on his shirt.

That's when he seems to come to his senses, right as you reach the last one. He pushes you away, face horrified.

"What do you think you're _doing?"_ Jack snarls, angrily.

Why is he so angry? You stare at him as he pushes your hands off him, pulling his suspenders back onto his shoulders. He's breathing hard, his adam's apple bobbing nervously as he pushes you away. His hair is a mess, but it seems like his mind thinks different. "Kissing you?" You offer, numbly, as he slaps your hands away.

"No, stop this." He says, and his eyes flicker back up to you and then your jacket discarded on the floor before he turns away. "We can't do this. We can't."

You scowl. "Why the fuck not? I'm going to die soon; I'm pretty sure I can do whatever I want."

"Because you're with the Doctor and you're supposed to travel with him and- this is just _wrong._ " He shakes his head, leaning down to scoop up his military coat. "I'm not going to be a rebound shag."

Oh. _Oh._ That's what he's worried about. The Doctor. The guy who _owns_ you.

You snort. Is that what he thinks? "You're not a rebound shag."

"Then what the hell is this?" He says. He pushes past you but you grab him by the back of the collar and with ease pull him back, wrapping your arm around his neck to bring his face dangerously close to yours. His eyes flicker down to your lips and he immediately reprimands himself for doing so: "You're not thinking straight."

"Tonight is free of charge. You really can't refuse, can you?" You smirk, nipping up at his neck. He tenses. "I didn't know Captain Jack Harkness refused shags."

"I don't." He denies, voice strained slightly. You kiss his jaw. "You're different."

You roll your eyes. "How?"

Jack looks away from you, his eyes going anywhere except for your face; the laptop, the first aid kit, your hand, where you've hastily pressed a pin against the quickly unraveling material. Anywhere but at you. It's quite amusing, really, how he seems to deny so many things. He's usually such fun to be around. "You've been with the Doctor for _six hundred years._ "

"Not anymore, so that's justified." You shrug, lips landing on his cheek. "Listen, I'm not trying to prove anything to the Doctor, Harkness. In fact, this has nothing to do with him." You kiss the corner of his mouth. "Now shut up and kiss me."

"Think this over, (Y/N). Act responsible." Jack says, and his hands are gripping your waist hard. He watches you, his breath ragged and his pupils blown huge. Poor man trying too hard to contain himself. "You're going to regret this."

"Hardly." You say, breezily. "I'll be too dead to regret it."

You kiss him, again, and this time, he kisses back.


	36. Friend, gone.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you think?  
> This isn't over, the next chapter will be up soon!  
> Or not soon  
> Or maybe I procrastinate...  
> a little.....  
> *cue awkward laughter*

"I heard someone once say," You muse, grinning, eyes flickering up to Jack briefly before returning to wrapping the bandage tightly around your hand; "Period military is not the dress code of a straight man."

He hums.

You shrug, fastening the clips tightly on your hand. "But then again, they haven't met _you_ yet. You're kind of an anomaly. No dying and all that." The vortex manipulator shudders beneath your hand as you tap at the screen and you briefly look up to see him immersed in the top button. "What do you think, Harkness?"

"I think you should find some better clothes to wear." He points out, and it's true; you zip up the black bomber jacket you'd nicked from somewhere with a scowl, the horribly purple shirt disappearing into the midst. "I'd say purple isn't your colour."

You agree, though you don't show it. "Hey," You complain, "Stealing clothes don't exactly sit well on my conscience, OK?"

"Says the girl who stabbed the Master."

"Says the guy who joined Torchwood and shot at killer aliens." You give him a glower as he opens his mouth to protest. "Don't lie; I know that was you in Cardiff. Spike of rift activity. I've checked it out ever since that earthquake." Snorting. "1941 my ass." He seems surprised at how you know; you have no idea why. It's not like he hides it from you or anything. First the huge monster sighting, then little bits and pieces of activity all over the place.

"Says the girl who took down Torchwood 1920."

Oh, _that._ No point elaborating, it's explained well enough. There'd been an unfortunate case involving Jack the Ripper's clone and a time engine. "Oi, that's a touchy subject." You punch his arm, grabbing an article of clothing off the rack; as he straightens out his outfit, you put in: "Also, says the ex con-man."

"I didn't try to trick you, at least."

"Because you thought I was useful. You 'asked' me to fix an entire Chula warship engine!"

He gives you an amused glance, apparently unable to say anything about it. "Says the- I'm never going to win this, am I?"

You laugh, and as he comes to a stop in front of you, hold his coat out. He spins around to shrug it on. "Never." You reach up to kiss the spot behind his ear, stiffening out the creases of the coat.

Jack winks at you as he slicks back his hair, checking himself in the mirror before turning towards you; until realizing he's looking above your head, not quite at you.

"Speaking of never," He muses, looking down, "I can't get used to your height." He laughs as you scowl at him. You will never get used to these height jokes, either. Five foot four! Can you _believe_ it? "You were, what, five foot nine in your last regeneration?" Putting on a mock surprised expression, he reaches one hand up to mime your height. "Ten?"

"Five foot eight." You correct, scowling. "So I lack an extra four inches. So what? I can still murder you with a look." He's teasing you but you do have to admit, it's quite funny. An involuntary smile coming to your features, you struggle to wipe it off again as he looks at you with triumph. "Just because you're six feet tall doesn't mean you have the right to mock me, Harkness." 

"Oh, yes I do." Jack says, as you snatch the USB from the table and pocket it. "How's the air down there?"

You laugh. "Shut up, Harkness. I'm about to die; you're not allowed to make small talk."

"Yes ma'am."

* * *

The guard paces the area, eyes drooping sleepily, as he gives a lazy scan of the empty corridors. No one there. There is always no one there. He wonders why the boss insists on doing a routine check every night when there's obviously _nothing_ there. Anybody would be crazy to try and break in or out of the Valiant.

Not that there _is_ a way.

He yawns, once more. Fuck the end of the world; he's just tired of having to go through patrol every day. But he can't say that in front of the boss, of course. Not unless he wants to be killed.

Like that girl, the small blonde one the other day. God, she'd been creepy. A psychopath, no doubt, but then, so was his boss. Maybe psychopaths loved sticking together. She'd seemed normal on the outside: lithe, blond hair, brown at the roots. Olive complexion. Huge eyes that made her look like his twenty-year-old daughter. But then again, you couldn't really say anything looked normal. That blasted Doctor didn't.

_But_ then again, he's kind of heard that that girl's special to the Master. Rumors that she can't be killed. Rumors that she's been exploiting the Master. Rumors that scare him a bit.

He muses these thoughts, but they're put off by a sharp blow to the head. Behind him, two figures, the said girl he'd been thinking about and a man, tall, six feet. He holds the weapon that had brought the guard to unconsciousness.

The girl- (Y/N)- groans. "I was going to knock him out, not _clobber_ him."

"Since when have you cared?"

She opens her mouth to protest but realize she can't really say anything; shaking her head, she just gives him a look before turning towards the corridor he'd been prowling. "That's the way to the TARDIS. I can hear it." Pulling something from her pocket, she gives it a little click with her thumb- a short-range signal disruption that should loop the CCTV feeds for a few minutes.

Without waiting for Jack, she begins to run.

"Thanks for waiting." He exclaims, sarcastically. She looks back to blow him a flirtatious kiss and hurries on her way, flipping her sonic out of her pocket. In front of them is a huge steel door, lifting upwards, and she rips open the access hatch to buzz it with her sonic as she's done all her life. It takes her less than five seconds. A technological marvel.

The door slides open with a screech of metal- does the Master not keep them polished?- and she doesn't need to duck when the door is two-thirds open; instead, she comes face-to-face with a guard.

"Hello." She waves, and steps aside to let Jack knock him unconscious.

"I thought you hated violence." He muses as the two of them step over the body. She shoots a look at him- _seriously?_ "Here you are, so very Torchwood of you."

"Hey," She complains, checking her vortex manipulator to turn right; "I didn't have a choice. He had a gun, OK?"

"Whatever you say."

With a final scowl at him, (Y/N) whips her sonic out from her pocket and scans the vicinity from head to toe, the low buzz of alien technology filling the air. She brings it to her eyes and gives it a good read. "Shut up." She says to her partner.

Jack blinks through the hazy smoke arising from the grates below, watching as she stuffs her hands into the pockets of her bomber jacket to crouch down. "What did I do?"

"I should _really_ get some new clothes. A belt barely does anything; I'm much too small. I like the jacket but I might change it." Glancing up at him, as though just realizing he's asked her a question. "You were thinking. It's very distracting and hardly necessary. If I'm correct, what we're looking for should be somewhere around here."

He frowns, opens his mouth to question _what exactly,_ when she lets out a laugh. Her fingers grapple for one of the many identical vents and she pulls it away, revealing a space a grown man can fit through- barely. Very tight.

"That's our way to the TARDIS." She announces.

"Are you kidding?" He asks her, then catches a glance of her expression. "Never mind. Will I fit?"

Her eyes scan him from head to toe, no doubt taking in his measurements- he's seen plenty who could do that, and don't doubt for a second that she can."Tight fit, but yes." She flashes him a charming grin. "Now come on."

(Y/N) fits into the vent nicely, still tight but at least better than he does. She begins to crawl and with a sarcastic smile at her backside, he follows. "Excellent bottom." He says, as he places the vent cover back where it was behind him. Turning back, he begins to crawl along with her, his eyes straying to her jean-covered bottoms. Very nice. "Curves in all the right places, I see."

"Oi, eyes to the front, soldier!" She snaps, but he can hear the smirk in her voice. "Lord, Jack. Get your mind out of the gutter."

"That's not what you said last night."

She pauses, her head turning back to him as she gives him a deadpan look. "Oh, shut up. Do we really have to talk about this now?" Pausing to press several buttons on the machine around her wrist, she swerves another right and follows the slope down. "We're in a delicate job here."

"Oh, how convenient of you to forget all the times you'd _flirted_ with me right now." Jack mutters. (Y/N), in front of him, shakes her head with a smirk. "So how long do we have to go again?"

"We'll end up somewhere around the fourth corridor. We go straight, take the second one on the left, then open the door and it'll be right there."

He gives a nod- _that should do it-_ as they pass little camera-looking bumps in the steel. "What _is_ that?"

Without looking back, she calmly replies, "Motion sensors. Heat sensors. Lasers."

"What?" He jolts away. He's gone through death by laser before and it isn't exactly _pleasant-_ he'd had nightmares for days. Motion sensors and heat sensors don't exactly sound good either. Especially on a mission that's supposed to be _stealth._ "Are you crazy? We could die, we could be-"

She rolls her eyes, grinning at his distress."Oh, babe, don't be worried. Who's the best hacker in the world?"

He doesn't answer.

"Actually, cut that. Who's the best technological genius in the world?"

Without another doubt, he says, "You."

* * *

You only _say_ you're confident. You don't mean it, half the time.

Like right now.

“Stop.” 

Slowly, you stop, standing back up to turn around with both your hands up. Jack is making a noise you can’t quite make out, so you turn. 

_No, no, no._

The sight that meets you makes your head pound furiously. Jack is caught in a choke hold, the much smaller Master bringing him to his knees. A gun is aimed at the back of your friend’s head, the cold barrel mercilessly pressing against him, and several other guards, watching him with weapons drawn. One move and it could splatter his body parts all over the place.

_No!_ How did the Master know? How did he know you'd end up here, you'd come back, you'd be here at this exact moment? How did he- he couldn't have. You calculated all possibilities.

“Let him go, Kent.” You calm him, eyes darting furiously between Jack and the Master. Threat on yourself you can take, but threat on the life of a friend; that’s a different thing altogether. He might be immortal but dying hurts, you can give him that. You don’t want to cause Jack any unnecessary harm.

“Or what?” Your friend teases. “Or you’re going to shoot me?” 

“No.” You say. You have to think of a plan, _now._ One of the smartest beings in the universe, thinking. Thinking of any plan. Thinking of the plan you know is there, but you don't want to use because it's too inhuman, even for you. But your friend is there, and you don't give up on your friends.

Slowly, with an acidic smile, raise the gun to your own head. 

There is a stunned silence, of Jack and the Master and all of them watching you.  “Oh, dear Hope.” He snorts, at last. “Don’t bluff. You love yourself too much to do that just for some freak in a military coat.” 

“He’s my friend.” You snap. “One that actually respected me, unlike you.” 

“Your friend?” He laughs. “Your  friend?  Are you sure you’re not enjoying yourself too much? I know you well enough to know you won’t leave a guy like this to rot.” He licks his lips. “I’d say you had a few goes at him, hmm? When was it? Yesterday night? Last week? Every day since you escaped?” He turns away, laughing with the guards. They nervously laugh back. "I'm the only friend you have, Hope. Face it. There's no one else for you."

“Oh, you know me that well, is it?” You snap, shoving the gun further beneath your chin. “You’d bet my life in that, hmm? If you haven’t noticed, this reincarnation isn’t exactly stable.” 

He opens his mouth to say something, Jack shaking his head at you furiously; a grin on your face, you cock the gun and bring it down to shoot the bullet wound on your hand. There is a bang and new blood seeps through the bandages, the gun steaming in your grasp. Jack yells out, “No!” 

“Still doubting me?” You bite back. 

The blood doesn’t seem to be stopping, and it hurts. You hold back a barely audible hiss, resisting the urge to clutch your hand close to your chest. 

The Master doesn’t do anything, just watches. You thumb back the barrel, and although your hand seems to shake from the effort of even holding a gun, you still maintain it. 

His eyes, still on yours. 

You click it, keeping the barrel close beneath your face, watching him. Chin raised in defiance. 

The Masters eyes flicker down to your hand again before he denies: “You don’t think your life means that much to me, do you? You can’t threaten someone else with your own life.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because no one cares about your own life as much as yourself.” 

You laugh, mercilessly bringing the gun to your chin again. “You think? Test me, you son of a bitch.” The gun is cold beneath your chin but you hardly flinch. This isn’t the first time you’ve aimed a weapon at yourself, and this isn’t the first time you’d actually meant what you’d said. There’s a clear difference between bluff and bluff you actually mean, and you’d say it’s the latter. 

But he cares. Because he cares, and because you use that to his advantage, he snarls and pushes Jack towards you, tossing his gun away. 

“It’s never me.” He snaps. “Is it?” 

“Thanks, Kent.” You say, a fleeting glance behind you, and your fingers closing around something from your pocket, tosses it towards your friend. He catches it, surprised, and you begin to run, pulling Jack behind you. He won't look at the thing in his hand until it's too late, you can guarantee that.

Behind you, you can hear the Master shouting, "No, _no!_ Don't shoot the girl, I want her _alive!"_

As soon as the two of you get out of earshot, your friend says, “What were you  thinking ?” He catches up to you, the two of you running side-by-side as he pumps shots from his hand pistol. 

“Saving your life.” You look back, flashing him a smile. “You’re welcome.”

“You should have left me behind!” 

You give him a deadpan look, swerving right. “Only for you to die painfully. I know how much dying hurts.” He gives you a protesting look but you raise a cold eyebrow at him: _look at the facts._ It's true and he knows it. Well, at least the two of you are alive and well- there were a hundred ways it could have gone wrong.

He opens his mouth, then again, closes it. “So where exactly are we?” He asks, instead. 

Oh, the power given to you. The only woman able to shut Jack Harkness up. 

“I’d say close.” 

“More specific, if you can?” 

“Almost there.” You reply, distractedly, one hand fishing inside your pockets for the USB. “Gah! Where is it? Left... somewhere there... _no_ , not the arsenic, and that’s the suitcase-“ 

“You have a  _suitcase_ in your pocket!?” 

“Long story.” You gesture to your bomber jacket. “Bigger on the inside. Time Lord technology, you know?” 

A guard passes and Jack whips his pistol into his temple. He falls. 

“Do you have to be so-  _yes!_ \- violent?” You grunt, tossing the data into the air and catching it in your palm. Happily, you give it a kiss from your mouth before doing just as you'd instructed Jack to- turning the second left you see- and watch as Jack draws his guns, rolling his shoulders back.

"OK," He says, all Torchwood-like, "There are going to be half a dozen Toclafane guarding the machine at all times, and your first priority is getting in there and getting it hooked up. I'm going to draw the fire. You ready?"

You smile. "When am I not?" Turning back to the mechanics of the door, you are just about to open the door when his hand flies over to you, his face holding regret. Not an expression you'd see before the death of their friend, but one that's seen too much death to reject it. Just regret.

"Jack?" You ask, but his hand is on your cheek, his eyes on yours, and then-

He kisses you, one last time.

Just the last.

* * *

The Master watches the guards pound after them, satisfied. Perhaps humans are daft and slow, but at least they make up for it in mass and determination- for money. For survival. He's satisfied with the customer service.

_Oh,_ that reminds him.

He peels his fingers away from his palm, watching as whatever Hope had thrown at him glints in the light. He gets that he will never be first to her, and he gets that she's chosen so many over him-

But must she act so much like the Doctor?

Bitter thoughts in mind, he turns the little medallion over. It seems to be a necklace, unbelievably light and familiar. Something, so long ago. Silver but not silver. Something engraved on both sides, identical. One Gallifreyan word, one outer circle. He _knows_ it, he just needs to dig up what it means-

_Friend._

The engraving says, _friend._

_"NO!"_ He howls, surging forwards towards the machine, only to be knocked off his feet by the explosion that travels so, so, far.

To his heart, his mind, and imploding the one thought straight into his soul.

(Y/N).


	37. An Aftermath

_“Kent!” The girl calls. Her eyes are wide, wider than usual, and her cheeks are rosy with a blush, her smile dreamy and one as happy as a girl whom has just been confessed to by a childhood crush. To which, she really has, but he does not know that—believing it to be a special day for him. In his eyes, she looks, to say the least, utterly beautiful. “Kent, look!”_

_“Happy birthday.” He greets, putting on his best grin. His best grin is only for her, and for the special occasion that is coming soon. “How’s your birthday so far?”_

_“Great.” She laughs, pulling him in for a squeeze of a hug. “Oh god, you won’t believe what happened. Oh, god.”_

_“What?” She probably got the thing she wanted for her birthday. He remembers, about fifty years ago, when she’d had this exact same moment. Not a boy, though; he’d know first, not to mention he knows she isn’t one for boys. “What’s all that excitement for?”_

_She shakes her head. “You wouldn’t believe it.”_

_He laughs. "Yes, I would." His fingers rub at the small object clutched in his hand, growing warm from the time it's been hidden in his palms. "What happened?"_

_She opens her mouth to talk, then closes it, biting her lip as she hesitates._

_“I kissed him today.” She whispers, and as though she can’t contain her excitement stifles a laugh, burying her face in her hands. “He told me happy birthday and then kissed me.”_

_She is happy, but he is not. No, not just unhappy. His world seems to be falling around him._

_She can’t have. He would have told her, today. She can’t have done this to him, not today, not this day. Not the day he thought was special._

_No, no, no, no. No, he can’t._

_Even though he knows who, he asks in a smaller voice. She tells him it’s the Doctor._

_The Doctor. It’s always him, one step ahead, always there before he is. Leaving him in the dust of Hope's wake like a knight in shining armor. She tells him she loves it, how he just carries her away, makes her a better person. She says he's so utterly stupid it's hilarious. She says he's kind of like Percy Jackson, whoever that is._

_He hates him._

_Why can't he be like the Doctor? Witty, successful, always getting the girl, always so smart and so good and so perfect. Why can't he be the one to make her a better person?_

_Why can't he just swoop down, take the girl, do what he wants? He waited too long and that Doctor, he took it all away from him. All of it. He runs his fingers over the medallion, the engraving. He spent a lot on it, although it isn't much. He was going to do what he'd been afraid to, today._

_Not now. Not anymore._

_He touches the engraving. The curse._

Friend.

* * *

The Doctor cradles the necklace close to his chest and cries.

He doesn't cry out loud, of course. He can't. The Master is watching and listening every day, every night, every second, and he would use that to his advantage, use the death of his own _friend_ to his advantage, to the only and best friend he ever had. The Doctor's fiance. He'd use that to his advantage and he'd take him away.

It does't matter. He still cries.

Because you're gone. He'd heard it, the explosion. It had rocked the whole ship and at least it could have done something. Your death could have at least _meant_ something. You could have at least saved the world before having such a tiny, pitiful death. But that didn't happen, and your death was for nothing.

No one knew why. The Master wouldn't let him anywhere near the scene.

There was no broken body, no blood, no lifeless eyes. That was what made it a hundred times worse. It seemed as though (Y/N) (L/N), the real Doctor, was just wiped from the surface of existence. No one would know how she died. Not the Apalapucians, not the Humans, not the Silurians or the Aplans or the Tivolians or _every other species_ you'd saved. You'd done so much for so many, yet in the end, you were nothing and nowhere.

You deserved the burial of a king. Instead, you got none.

The time you'd spent together was so short. He could remember it, still, the day they'd first met, and it seemed like yesterday.

Time, time, _time._ He was a Time Lord, but he always ran out of time.

Why? He hates Jack for it. He hates Jack, and the Master, and Martha, and everyone, because unlike what you think, it's true. You are the love of his life, and you are the only one he's ever loved. He'd choose you over Rose Tyler every day, _any day,_ if only you just came back. If only you came back and never left again.

He can still hear the last words she ever said to him.

_You're my fiance, not my master._

Her fiance... her fiance... her fiance... he'd offered it, before. To change that. He'd told you about a cozy little place on the biggest star in the world. The one they'd been to, for your birthday, the birth of your first child, your first kiss. Every date coincided there and he'd suggested to get married.

You'd told him you weren't ready. If only you'd said yes- if only you'd been here- if only he'd been better.

He was angry, and the worst thing was that he couldn't do anything about it. He wanted to scream, to kick, to cry, to fucking _murder_ anyone who even got in his way, but he couldn't because he'd promised the very person he was trying to avenge. He'd promised you he wouldn't. You'd promised each other.

He couldn't do anything about it. A TARDIS, his wits, his life, and how good was he? Because after all he did, he couldn't just as well protect the thing most precious to him. You. It was you, it was always you, and you didn't know. The two constants in his life, you and the TARDIS, and one of them were dead.

His fiance. His lover. His best friend. His woman. He swore, he swore he would help you, he would change you for the better, he would protect you, but he killed you. One thing he never promised was you killing yourself _for_ him.

He loves you. He loves you. He loves you.

He _loved_ you.

One more suffering soul put to rest, and a hundred more conscience put on his shoulders.

* * *

"Hey," You call. "Anyone there?"

It's strange. You hadn't expected it to be quite so dark, quite so _dank._ Apparently, that's what death is. Not very nice.

No, you don't like it at all. All in all reminds you, a bit, of that corner of your mind you never want to visit. Something you'd locked up hundreds of years ago. Maybe this is your punishment, or this is your welcome mat, or maybe you're not dead at all. Maybe you've regenerated, and this time, you're blind. Anomaly. The blond regeneration seems to have one; why not the new one?

But no, when you touch your face and your eyes and your body, it's clear that you haven't. There's no mistaking the younger face and the loose curls of hair. Probably still blonde. You'd estimate your physical age to be around twenty-five.

Beneath your feet- your feet, in new shoes, shoes you've never really felt with these feet before- there is something metal, and to your left, a hazy glow, as if something is _trying_ to power up but can't quite make it out. 

Hmm, maybe you should-

"Hello?" Says a voice behind you, and you frown, humming in response.

The lights seem to flicker on from somewhere to the left, illuminating the vast room, and you finally realize where you are.

It's the TARDIS.

Exactly the same as before, when it _hadn't_ been cannibalized by the Master. The coral pillars, the golden walls, the slight haze of blue-green. It's your TARDIS, all right, and it's _stunning._ You don't know how much you've missed this. Your home, your life.

"Oh, you beautiful girl." You whisper. "You're safe. My girl. My _beautiful_ girl."

"Yours?" The man says again, baffled, and you turn, finally, to evaluate whoever's in the TARDIS. A companion? A friend?

What you see completely baffles you.

It's a man, a man in a worn, black leather jacket, his hair cropped close. His eyes are kind and his smile wide, looking at you with a baffled but still pleased smile. He is tall, about as tall as the Doctor or Jack, arms crossed over his chest. Kind eyes. Old eyes. Eyes like yours, and a mismatched grin.

Familiar.

But when you open your eyes, the first thing that comes out of your mouth isn't _who_ _are you_ or _what do you want,_ but rather: "Is something wrong with your ears?"

Oops. You probably shouldn't have.

He just takes one glance at you and instead of replying, says, "What do you think you're doing in my TARDIS?"

His voice is laced with a thick northern accent and he seems to have a quite familiar yet prominent way of talking, but you can't think of that. The only thing you can't think of is the fact that he called it _his_ TARDIS. _His._

Who _is_ this guy?

"Hey," You protest, angrily. "This is _my_ TARDIS. The Doctor's TARDIS."

"Yes." He repeats, "But who are you?"

You narrow your eyes. The response to the name, the accent he clearly doesn't notice, the _yes_ he's just said.

"Hold on a minute," You say, eyes widening, "Are you the Doctor?"


	38. Nowhere

"Yes," He repeats, impatiently, "But who are you, and why are you here?"

The Doctor.

_This_ is the Doctor? You want to laugh out loud. The only one you've known since your planet went away is the one, the tall, skinny boy in the brown suit. This one, compared, seems so... punk. While that one is geeky, this one is more like someone you'd see hanging around with the gang in S.E. Hinton's _Outsiders._

This is the Doctor. _Your_ Doctor.

"Doctor?" Your eyes widen. _"You_ are the Doctor? You're the Doctor?"

He nods, obviously confused. Incredibly confused.

Your mouth curved up in a smile, you take two huge steps forwards and wrap your arms around him, hugging him tightly. He is new, smells like new. The leather jacket is worn beneath your fingertips and his arms are hesitant, wondering why this strange girl has come into the TARDIS to hug him.

He's dead and so are you, so it's OK. It is fine, to show weakness in front of him. Both of you are dead, anyway, and you don't have any weaknesses. But hell, he smells like cologne. A totally different smell from your other Doctors- while the Tenth smells like pine needles and spices, this one smells a bit like cheap dollar-stone perfume.

"Hey, ginger." You murmur, closing your eyes with a smile.

His arms, finally, wrap around you, and he smiles into your hair. He is cradling you like you are the most precious thing in the world, like the old days. You love it.

_Ginger._ No wonder he noticed. The key word for all your regenerations.

"Hello, (Y/N) (L/N)." He says, mouth caressing every word. "Welcome home."

"I missed you." You say, and it's the first time you've spoken these words in this form, which makes it feel all the more special. Like you're saying it for the first time. "I missed you."

He is all over you. He is gentle. He has just met you.

He is different.

"I missed you too." He says, and it seems like the first time in so many years he actually means it.

* * *

"So," You say, your fingers woven tightly with his as the two of you sit side by side, your legs dangling out of the TARDIS dangerously, "I'm dead, obviously. This is, what, heaven? Hell? Purgatory?"

"Sort of." His head turns, from the view of Earth, to kiss the top of your head. "It's complicated."

You grin. "That's you all the way, isn't it?" You prod, your smile growing bigger. "The Doctor in two words: _it's complicated._ Because if you tell me, I'd say you can't be here. Because you're not dead." Pushing away from him, you lean forwards to try to see his face. "But it's also strange that I'm here. We technically can't exist in the same place at the same time unless this whole place is just a devise from the past and I'm stuck in the past. In which, the Doctor from the future should be able to remember me, but he obviously didn't, so no."

He stares at you, for a good, long time. Then he reaches forwards, and ever so slowly, reaches out to tuck your hair behind your ear. "It's like you've never left." The Doctor says, and slowly, he laughs. "Can you believe that? Four decades, more than half your life, and you haven't changed a bit."

You're not offended, though. Instead, you just sigh, and lean back.

"When you've lived as long as we have-"

He finishes your sentence. The synchronization of not two lovers, not two friends, but two people who have lived so bitterly long, seen so bitterly much.

"-change is as dreaded as death can be."

There is silence. Comfortable silence of two damned souls basking in each other's company. You squeeze his hand and your head comes back on his shoulder, tucking yourself between the crook of his collar. "So you're a regeneration that's after the war, but before he met me. Ninth. The one I never saw." You finally speak up. He nods.

"Good thing you didn't see me then," He notes. "I wasn't quite as lenient. Not to mention the _ears._ "

You snort, reaching up to touch his ears. "There's something always strange about you, every time you come as a new person. The next one has weird hair."

"Fantastic." He exclaims. "I've always wanted longer hair."

"Yeah," You snicker, "Just look at your crew cut, old man. You _deserve_ better hair."

"Like yours." He jokes, rolling a strand between his fingers. "It's fabulous. Better than Marilyn Monroe. We should know- she was very nice, but not nearly as pretty as you."

You scowl. "Liar. To tell the truth, you're avoiding the question."

"What question?"

Snorting, you detach yourself from him to make your way onto your feet, your toes scrabbling for the edge. Reaching forwards with your hand, you way your hand in the air, feeling it, and bring your palm to your nose, sniffing it.

"Strange." You say, stuffing your hands into the pockets of your jacket again. "Very strange."

"What is?" He looks up at you, narrowing his eyes as if to suspect something, suspect anything. "What's strange, (Y/N)?"

You turn as if to walk back into the TARDIS, your back to the beautiful view of Earth.

"This is." You say, grinning, and fall backwards into space.

* * *

"See?" You spread your hands as you stroll out of the staircase. "I'm still alive. I disabled the shields and fell into space, and then I disappeared and reappeared there, just in front of the corridor. If you asked me, I'd say this dimension starts in the TARDIS doors and ends just after the stairs meet the corridor. The whole console room, actually." Putting a finger to your chin. "Where do you _sleep?_ _"_

He is next to you in a second, his arms wrapping around you desperately as he stares off into nothingness just above your shoulder. "Don't you dare do that to me again, (Y/N) (L/N)." He says angrily. "Do you get that? _Never_ do that to me."

You pull away from him, frowning, your hands shifting nervously in the fabric of your jacket pockets. "You know you can't die here. What're you so worried about?"

The Doctor is worried. You know about what, of course.

It's just... well, too good to be true. A Doctor who still loves you, who still appreciates you, who still adores you like he's done. A love that never died. The Doctor is still like that and it frankly frightens you because you haven't seen that in such a long time.

No, not frightened. (Y/N) (L/N) is never frightened. Confused. Uncomfortable.

When did it get to a point where you had to question affection?

"So," You say, your finger rubbing at the hem of his leather jacket as you take a deep breath, the smell of his cologne and worn leather filling your senses, "What aren't you telling me about this place?"

"First off," He argues, tearing away. "I'm not _not telling you._ I'm just not talking. Secondly, if you just _listen,_ I'll explain it to you."

You open your mouth, and begrudgingly, shut it. Oh, you always did have too soft of a spot for the Doctor. At least this one- you'll listen to this one. Just this one time.

"Thank you." The Doctor smiles. "Yes, you're right. I'm a nasty man," He says at your expression, "But the point is, this place is a sort of purgatory. In my opinion, I'm only here to help you along your transition." Rushing around the console to press a few buttons. You help him, although you have no idea where you're going. He sets the coordinates, but there is no lurching of the TARDIS whizzing through time and space- just a slight shudder, and a stop.

"Like a pit stop." You point out, tilt your head to look at him. "But if it's a pit stop, how can the TARDIS move? Unless it hasn't."

He saps his fingers, points at you. _Bingo._

You give him a pointed look, rushing over to the doors to throw them open. The sight that awaits you- it's just-

_Astounding._

Gallifrey, the planet you haven't seen in so long, the planet you love, it's there. It's there in front of you and it's so _beautiful-_ the orange, the glass dome, you're so close you can count the individual clusters of people. The academy you'd been to, the first house you'd moved in with the Doctor, it's all there. So close to you, and so beautiful.

"Oh, my god." You whisper, your hand reaching up to touch your eyes, to see if you're actually seeing this. "Oh, my god. Doctor."

"I know." He says, behind you. His hand is on your shoulder.

"It's beautiful." You murmur. You feel happy, ecstatic, a hundred emotions, but you can still feel it. The pit of anger drumming in your stomach, the less-than-justified yell built up on the back of her throat. You know it isn't the Doctor's fault, and you knows he never meant it that way, but some little part of you hates him for it. "It's just beautiful."

"You'll need it." He says.

You know something's vaguely wrong with those words, but you can't make them out because it's _Gallifrey._ Even in death, you're seeing it. You're never going to stop being chased by its ghost.

If you reach out, it almost seems as though it's real. It's true, and if you just land this stupid TARDIS, your home will be waiting there with open arms. Your sister, your mother, your father, they're no longer angry at you like they were. The Doctor will be standing there, waiting, just to move back into your small albeit cozy house.

You just have to take a few more steps.

But when you reach out to touch it, it's so obviously _not_ there. Too good to be true, obviously. Like a hallucination. Almost there, but not quite. Just a simple trick of the mind.

"What do you mean," You ask, instead, "I'll need it?"

The Doctor, behind you, looks away, giving you a regretful look. He just turns away towards the TARDIS consoles, flipping switches and buttons that you know don't mean anything. "Nothing. Just- it's fantastic, isn't it?"

You turn away from the planet, furiously. _"Liar!"_ You yell, striding forwards to grab him by the collar and slam him against the console. "You're lying! You lie to me all the time and expect me to be OK with it when I'm not and that's why I _hate_ you! Tell me the truth, _now!_ " This is the first time you've actually talked about yourself, since you moved into this new body. It's refreshing but burdening. You like it but hate it at the same time.

His eyes are sad. Like always. Old, and sad.

You fucking _hate_ it.

"Why won't you ever tell me the truth? Why do you always-" You snap, and although your hands are on _his_ collar, not yours, you can't help but feel like you're choking. "Always- I have your trust, don't I?"

The Doctor opens his mouth to answer when the flashing of lights and the ringing of alarm bells erupt. Through the chaos, he kisses the top of your head and smiles at you.

"That's the problem." He says. "You have too much of it."


	39. The Fears of Two Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here we have the big reveal.  
> What is the girl with no fears afraid of?

"What's happening?" You ask, desperately. Your hands come away from his lapels to clamp around your ears, trying to block out that horrible sound, the sound that's ripping through your ears violently, the wailing of alarms. "Hey, I'm not falling for any of your schemes! Tell me what the fuck this is!"

Flashing. Wailing. You hadn't even known the TARDIS had emergency flashing lights and sirens. But it does, and it tears you in half like a scream from the deepest pit of the Time Vortex.

So many noises. It sounds like bombs. A particularly high-pitched wail rips through the air and you begin to panic, your eyes darting back and forth furiously. _"Stop!"_

He grabs your shoulders, ducks down slightly so that his eyes are level with yours. "(Y/N), you have to listen carefully, and don't argue. We don't have much time."

"What? You're not making any sense!" You laugh. "Don't have much time to _what?_ "

He grabs your hand, pulls you towards the consoles. His northern accent is thickening noticeably, under the pressure of time. But you don't get it- _what_ time? Listen to _what?_ What is he _talking about?_ "(Y/N), you've got to listen. I haven't told you where you go _after_ the pit stop." He seems afraid. Why is he afraid?

"I just kind of assumed you'd go to heaven." You perk up. _No,_ it can't be. "Wait, is this limbo? Am I stuck in _limbo?"_

The sirens keep ringing. It is chaotic, the two of you talking over each other desperately combined with screams of a desperate alarm, but none of you truly _listen._ "Please, just listen!" The Doctor says, and his eyes are desperate. "You're going to be alone for a bit. Don't be scared. You're going to get back eventually, but time is getting mixed up and it's taking you a few months early."

"A few _months_ early?" You snort. "Stupid time. What does that mean?"

He holds both his hands out. "Don't panic. (Y/N), you're about to leave soon, but you can't panic, OK? I'm not sure how long you'll be there for."

You cross your arms, look away with a scoff of a smile. "You're making no sense. Clarify."

"I don't have bloody _time!_ " He exclaims, his fingers caressing your shoulders as if to make you understand. "(Y/N), stay brave. I know you'll hate it, but you have to stay brave. For me. Remember me. Fantastic me, remember?" He seems to smile as more of a comfort towards himself, but you can't quite piece together what's happening. You don't like not knowing. You're panicking. You can't be panicking. You don't work well when you panic.

You open your mouth to respond. Whatever's coming, it isn't good. 

The whole room- the Doctor- it all starts to flicker, like it's just a simulation and it's turning off. His fingers seem ghostly, like he's not really there. Your smile fades.

"Doctor?" You say, and you stuff your hand in your pocket, to stop it form doing what it's obviously doing. "A few months? Where am I going to be stuck?" His tone. His expression. It strikes you, then. "Doctor, am I going to be alone?"

He reaches forwards, takes your face in his hands gently. "(Y/N), I'll be there."

"No, no, no, no, _no._ " You say. You can't. You can't be alone. You don't want to.

Why does everything always happen to you?

The Doctor presses a kiss on the top of your head. "Be brave, (Y/N). Be fantastic."

Your eyes are wide with horror. You're going to be alone. For how long, for forever. You're going to be alone and you're going to be in the dark. You _don't want to._ "Don't go." You swallow back your fear. "Doctor, don't you dare leave." Your fingers reach up to touch his face and once you make contact, they slide down to his neck until you are hugging him.

For the first time you've been in this form, you can't seem to smile.

You hug him until he fades away, and then you are all alone. That is when panic builds up on your throat, fear prickling every sense. You can go through anything. You can fight again. Just not thing. Never this.

" _No!"_ You cry, but it's completely dark, not a trace of the TARDIS or the Doctor. You're alone. "No, no, no! _Doctor!_ Don't you dare leave me, don't you dare-"

It's dark and it's lonely. You are all alone, all by yourself again. You can't be alone.

Anything _but_ being alone.

Your hands are shaking- no, your whole _body_ is shaking, quivering dangerously as you curl yourself into a ball to try and deny reality. You're not alone. He's just playing another stupid prank on you. You're going to be OK.

_"No!"_ The words build up, up into a scream. You are screaming, but there is no one to hear. You are screaming, but nothing is there to help. You are alone, alone, alone.

_Alone._

* * *

The woman ducks her head as she swerves past the group of guards, wrapping her coat tighter around her. Her hair is the colour of butterscotch, as he once described it, and her face painted into beauty. Her eyes innocent yet serene.

Her heart is beating erratically against her chest and her eyes dark nervously back and forth. No doubt searching for _him._ He won't be as lenient towards her as he'd been to that other girl. It was just the way it was. Not that he would come out, anyway; he hadn't come out of the other girl's room in nigh four days already. She just didn't like it.

Another round of guards and Toclafane pass, and she ducks past them, coming to a stop in front of the huge double doors she'd been searching for. Finally.

A single soldier guards the perimeters. He starts when he sees her, eyes widening, but when she just gestures at him to open the door, relaxes visibly. No doubt worried about the amount of casualties her husband causes- to everyone. No matter whose side they are no, her husband is quite happy to kill.

Not currently, though. Currently he is locked up in the dead Time Lord's room.

She gives the soldier a nod as he swings the door open. The deep royal blue of her gown startles him and she knows what he's thinking: that alone could feed his family for half a year. Very expensive. Her husband likes her in expensive clothes.

Shaking the thoughts out of her head, her fingers fumble with her jacket before drawing out a gun. She's never used one before but it's probably not too hard; plus, the man she aims to use it on is not exactly in threat of death.

Beyond the door is her answer.

Taking a solemn pause, she fumbles with the object in her hand before passing into the gate.

As soon as she enters, the door clangs shut behind her and locks, and she turns to the sight in front of her. If she gets caught- no, she is doing nothing strange. Just visiting a man to see his condition. Not to mention there is a minute chance she will be caught, with his being locked into a room.

Yes, nothing strange.

She watches, tentatively, at the sight in the middle of the room: a man, head hung, seemingly unconscious, his shaggy hair hanging down to cover his face. His arms are suspended by posts on either side of him and for a moment, she feels the briefest flash of pity for him before shaking it out of mind. _Her husband is right. She is happy- there is no reason for her to worry so._

Her hand quivers, just a little bit, and her collar throbs just a little bit. No, no. She's being stupid. Harry will understand. Harry always understands, that's the kind of husband he is.

She watches him for a bit more and seems to lose her nerve, just a little; then she steels her nerves again. _No, she needs to find out why. She can't lose her nerve._

Slowly, her hand comes up to tap against the posts.

"Jack Harkness?" She calls out, tentatively.

A pause. Then the shaggy head lifts, and a face is staring back at her, handsome but dirtied and scraggly at the same time. His eyes are the only bright points in his muddy face, but she can see just how charming he _used_ to be- not that she would find any other man but her Harry attractive, of course. She can see why that girl had an attachment to him.

"That's Captain Jack Harkness to you." He bites back.

She pauses, looks back up. He is smiling at her, but it's not a nice smile.

"What do you want?" He finally says, that smile still on his face. She resists the urge to shiver. "The faithful, beautiful wife. Lucy Saxon. I see your husband isn't here with you."

At the mention of her husband, she snaps back.

This is something she _needs_ to do. She's been debating it for two weeks already; no use putting it off. Stepping forwards, a silenced gun in her hands, she orders, "I need you to answer a few questions."

Lucy half expects him to laugh at her; he doesn't. Instead, Jack Harkness is staring at her with a suspicious gaze, his blue eyes drilling into her. She half flinches, but forces her resolve again. _She's_ the one in control here, but it doesn't seem like it; his smile is growing nastier by the second, a bitter, ironic smile stretching against his used-to-be handsome features. "I'd rather not. If you can't see, I'm trying to mourn the death of my friend."

She grits her teeth. Friend. He's obviously talking about _her._

"Answer me." She commands, cocking the gun, and holds it up towards the man in front of her. He just laughs, though, laughs it off; ignoring her. Everyone does. Even Harry. She's no threat. "Answer me!"

She reaches down to empty a bullet into his leg; he gasps in pain, but that smile- that _horrible_ smile- it doesn't leave his face. "Oh, that's how far you're wanting to go. Does your husband know you're doing this without his express permission? Don't you want to know what he'll do if he finds out?"

"Harry won't do anything to me!" Her voice sounds frantic, even to her. "Just _answer me!_ "

He scoffs and she shoots his other leg. "Just _answer me,_ please. I need you to answer me this." She's begging, to a prisoner. Why is she doing that? All for one other girl? "How did she do it?"

As soon as she asks that question, she can't help herself; gasping, she turns around to make sure no one but they are hearing this conversation.

There is a long silence. She cannot help but keep looking back, worrying if Harry will turn up behind her any second and ask her with a firm grip on her shoulder what exactly she's doing- but why isn't he answering? Doesn't it _hurt?_ This is such a simple question, and she's gotten to such desperate measures-

"Do what?" He asks.

Lucy whips around. "I beg your pardon?"

"How did who do what? You're going to have to explain that, Saxon."

Now that she seems to be asking the question, she cannot seem to form a coherent thought nor sentence; her mouth opening and closing, she throws another look behind her before turning back to him. "How did... did Hope-"

"(Y/N)."

"How did (Y/N) do it? Just _please,_ tell me."

He tilts his head. He doesn't seem to know what she's talking about, even now. "Do what? What did she do? I'm sorry, sweetheart, but you're going to have to be a little more accurate."

She can't believe she is doing this. Lucy Saxon, the queen of Earth confessing to a prisoner.

Ducking her head, she looks at him to see if he's laughing at her but he doesn't seem so, to her surprise; instead, he's looking at her with something like pity. Pity, from a prisoner tied to posts and tortured every day. "Make Harry love her." She finally blurts out. "He loves her, doesn't he? I know he does."

"And you thought you'd ask me?"

"Well you're- you're her friend, aren't you?" She points her gun at him, although it's quivering just a bit. She's never actually _killed_ anyone before, just handed her over to her husband for _him_ to kill. Never her, and she's not sure she could. "I couldn't ask the Doctor, he's always in the conference room and- and Harry's there too-"

As soon as the words pop out, she claps her hand over her mouth.

"Oh." The man in front of her says softly, and she holds the gun towards him. Before she can lose her nerve, she closes her eyes and shoots him point blank in the chest.

One minute is all it takes; he gasps, and in an instant his head flies up and he hisses at her, "What do you think you're doing?"

"You- you can't die."

"Yes." He says, and takes a few deep breaths. "Yes, yes. What the fuck are you doing? You can _kill_ someone with that."

"I just- I just did." She says, and Lucy tries to sound confident but she can't. The place on her side still throbs, the finger marks on her back. She can't really have a nerve of steel after all that's happened. "Tell me. How she made him love her."

He doesn't laugh at her, he really doesn't. She has to give the prisoner some credit for that.

"She didn't." Jack Harkness says, and his eyes are glittering, like he's just found out his best friend isn't dead after all. "She was just chaotic. And who else loves chaotic like the Master?"

She stares at him.

"Who else is as simple as you, Lucy Saxon?"

There is a final silenced gunshot, and she walks out of there, the hand mark across her cheek still throbbing.

Knowing that she holds lesser worth than a dead girl.

* * *

You don't know how long you've been here. Too long.

"Help me." You whisper, voice hoarse, and you can't seem to stop crying.

Alone. Alone. Alone. You're so... _broken._ You're broken, and alone, and who isn't, when they're forced to face their deepest fear for days, for months, for _eternity?_ When the deepest, darkest pit of what they fear and run from the most climbs back up to surround you for forever? The unbreakable soldier, broken by the lack of a presence.

By fear.

_Alone, in the dark._

You don't want to be alone.

You never wanted to.


	40. Thinking About You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just wondering out of simple curiosity, how old do you all think I am?  
> Hhaha weird question but yes.

You are tired of all of this.

Simply... tired.

Perhaps due to the fact that you've been stuck here longer than you should have. That you've been with nothing but your worst fears for what seems like a millenium. And that even though you _can_ sleep, you hate it because all it does is bring you more pain, more darkness, more loneliness, more fear.

God, maybe it would be better if you just... died. Limbo hurts. Limbo sucks.

Maybe if you hadn't taken the Doctor's hand all those years ago, maybe if you hadn't fallen for him and his _stupid_ grin, maybe if you hadn't accepted his offer to become partners in crime and steal that _stupid_ TARDIS, maybe you'd have less pain. Maybe you'd hurt less. Maybe you'd be happier.

No, you don't blame him. You never blame him and you hate yourself for that, because you always find a way to defend him. He left you but you can't ever blame him. Your love for him was what put you in that blasted war but still, you can't say anything.

Because it's an undeniable fact that he'd _changed_ you, for the better, all those hundreds of years ago. He'd changed you and you'd changed him too, both of you for the better, and if it wasn't for him you'd be like the Master right now. So full of hate and anger, blaming everyone for everything and every little problem. It's not his fault, though; as a person soaked in guilt, it's more of yours. You love the Master and the Doctor both, just in different ways.

Tracing your finger along your hip, you squeeze your eyes shut and calm yourself.

Who was it? You'd met a Greek philosopher who'd said something about that. Or C.S. Lewis. You'd met them both. They'd taken one look at you and analyzed you like an open book, telling you one thing.

_Mental pain is less dramatic than physical pain, but it is more common and also more harder to bear._

C.S. Lewis, you decide. Yes, you think. C.S. Lewis.

You've kept almost every thought to try and distract yourself from what's actually happening. You'd had a friend, who'd been like that. She didn't like to think, so she always tried to keep herself occupied with something else. That was her propaganda. Her moral. Her... M.O., if you could call it that. Yes. Like an M.O.

It hadn't turned up so well for her in the end.

* * *

Heavy hearts, heavy minds.

Six months, and a certainty that she will never come back.

He has dreamt about her, again. The Doctor and his lover. In this dream, she tells him she forgives him for everything he's done so far. She tells him it's going to be OK and she's never going to leave him, and then she kisses him.

But she'd lied. In his dream, she'd lied like he did, and then she shot him. Through his dying eyes, she made sure he saw that she shot herself too. And then they died.

A strange dream, but utterly destroying for him. He'd woken up crying, and the Master had laughed. The Master always laughed, nowadays. He doesn't seem affected by (Y/N)'s death. Why would he? He hardly seems to care anymore. Even though she was his friend, his friend and his love and his same kind, he doesn't seem sad at all.

He hates him for that.

But hate- hate, he shouldn't. He promised (Y/N) he wouldn't, so he doesn't. That's the way he promised her it would be, and that's the way he keeps it. She begged him not to hate and he promised.

He keeps his promises to her. Especially to her.

Because it's her, and it's always been her.


	41. Everything everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally here!

Today, you feel pain.

It's a new feeling, of course. You feel like you haven't felt pain in... what, forever? Not yesterday, and especially not last week. If you can call it last week. You still have no idea which week, which month, which day it is.

But the point is that it just... hurts.

You have no idea when it started. It had originally been just a small nagging on the back of your brain. In the base of your skull, a little prodding that ached for your attention, but you'd been too preoccupied to care about it. Nothing to worry about; you'd had worse. _Far_ worse. Where you were _was_ worse.

Then, it becomes something to worry about: it grows. It grows, and the prickling turns to prodding and the prodding turns to pounding and the pounding turns to screaming, enveloping you from head to toe, your body wrecked in screams of anguish from every nerve ending, head to tie. It finally gets your attention and it begs for more, a hundred volts of electricity raining down on you, a coldness surrounding your senses, a pain that doesn't stop.

Why? Why does it have to be you? This is worse, worse than the scar on your arm, worse than any kind of torture you'd endured- and you keep hoping, you keep _begging,_ that you'll be able to die. That you'll finally move on.

The pain stays, though. It stays, for weeks and for months and for what seems like your entire life, flashes of red surrounding the darkness you've been trapped in, nothing but everything all around you.

It hurts.

But it is the first thing you have felt in so long and you hate yourself for being happy about it.

* * *

"Oh, god."

_What?_

"Oh god. I can't- Oh, _god._ "

Oh god? That's... that's new. You haven't heard another person talk for a long, long time.

Mostly it's just been hallucinations, actually. Nothing's changed, so you don't even bother to think- like you did in the first few days, weeks, whatever- about escaping from that pit. You'd heard a lot of voices. The Doctor's, your friends', the Master's, Jack's, Martha's... even the dead...

It's hallucinations. You'd be concerned for your own mental health if you had room to worry about that, too.

Something cold is pressing against your cheek, against your arm, and there is the rustling of soft fabric on your body. It's real. It's too real. _Go away._

You can almost imagine it, and you can almost believe it, but it's still dark so you know it's not true.

The TARDIS. You could be in the TARDIS right now. The grates clanging beneath your feet, the console humming and purring under your touch, the way the cool air filled your lungs, the way he was there, all the time, the Doctor. The Doctor and his TARDIS. The Doctor, the Soldier, and their home of a TARDIS.

You refuse to believe it. It's impossible.

But there is something creeping up your arm, something warm, something foreign. It's not a sensation you could get in the void, where you are alone. It's not a sensation you've been feeling for a long, _long_ time.

But it can't be.

_Go away,_ you want to scream, but voices don't work in the void; nothing does. It feels like your mouth is sewn shut. It feels like your body is sewn in place. Unable to move, unable to speak, unable to... _exist._

It hurts.

"No." You gasp, and your eyes shoot open when you realize that you can _hear_ yourself. You've only ever heard hallucinations. "Wh-"

_"(Y/N)."_

Before you know it, you are enveloped in a pair of arms.

To your surprise, you can feel everything, hear everything, _see_ everything. Colours exploding into your vision, so long ago that your eyes flash with pain, and all of a sudden, you can hear everything, feel everything.

It hurts, but you love it.

The person that's cradling you is warm, solid, like it's always been. Like you've forgotten. The chest you're pressed against is solid and someone's hand is on your hair, his mouth against your head and murmuring words into it. You are gasping, but it seems like there's too much air. Too much everything, all at once, and you can't get used to it.

"Wh-" How do you talk again? You'd tried to talk, in the first few days. You'd given up. "What?"

"(Y/N)." He keeps saying your name. "(Y/N). (Y/N). Oh, god, (Y/N)."

You can't open your eyes. Why can't you open your eyes?

The person says your name, over and over again, and finally, you place it.

You hate yourself for being disappointed that it's not the Doctor.

"Jack." You whisper.

_But then, it's never the Doctor._


	42. sounds.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another update! A short one, I'm sorry, but I couldn't resist the urge for a cliffhanger. I do love those.  
> Wait up for the next chapter and never feel shy to drop a kudos and a comment!

“Oh, my god. Jack.”

His arms wrapped around you. His voice mumbling in your ear. His, but not the Doctor's; but that's fine. You're back. You're back and it's all fine. Nothing else matters.

"Jack?" You murmur, in a small voice. The sound is still so new to you. “Jack.”

He doesn’t respond. You don’t blame him for that, you really don’t. If _he_ was gone, and you believed he was for _so long-_ no, you don’t blame him. You blame yourself for all of this.

“Jack.” You say, but there is no response, save for the sensation of his arms tightening around you, his mouth against the top of your head, his arms cradling you like there’s you and nothing else. You hate yourself and you hate the Doctor and you hate everything right now. “Jack, you alright? Come on, be a man. You cry and I'll never let you forget it, not in a million years."

You're blabbering and both of you know it. You just don't want to cry yourself.

_You're back... you're back... you're back..._

_No more darkness. Never._

He breathes, warm against your head, and you can feel the rough material of his army coat. You notice you’re dressed in the old clothes again, white shirt coated with dried blood, the too-big coat that you might just as well trip over, the screwdriver nestled against your thigh.

You open your mouth to say something, to say _anything._ To joke and laugh and tousle his hair like you did so long ago. But when you try, all that comes out of your mouth is a whimper and a gasp.

“Jack.” You repeat. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Jack. I'm so, so sorry.”

He sucks in a breath, and you know what he's thinking, what both of you are thinking. _Sorry?_

“You’re sorry-” Jack Harkness breaks off. His eyes are wide, staring at you. Confused, angry, sad. Mostly joyful that you're back; someone is. You bite your tongue to force away the emotions. Emotions made you regenerate, emotions made you like this with the Doctor, emotions got you much too far. “You’re sorry- why? Why are you sorry?”

“I didn’t mean to make you like this.” You say. In all actuality, you are holding back your own emotions, but you can’t tell him that. You can never tell him that. “I’m sorry. I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault." He breathes, deep. "I should have been ready for it. I should have-"

Is this what happens? Is this what happens to anyone who dares travel with the mighty (Y/N), the Hope? Is this what they become: weak, blaming, misfortunate? Are you that- _are you that unlucky?_

"No." You shake your head. No, no, no. It's not you. _Please,_ for fuck's sake, it's not you. "No, Jack, don't you dare say another word."

He opens his mouth. Your chest closes in, panicking. You do the only thing you can, the only thing you can remember to do because the Doctor had done it so many times; you kiss his mouth. And it works, because he pauses.

"Just tell me what’s happened.” You grumble. "Tell me."

He hesitates, and you know what he’s going to say next but that hardly prepares you. “The Doctor. He turned back time.”

The Doctor, of course. Your hands tighten into fists and you pull away from Jack. _I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine._

“Well, thanks to him.” You say, and force yourself to grin. “I’m back now and that matters, right? C’mon, I want to see how the Master was valiantly defeated by the great Doctor.”

He frowns. “You alright? You think you can walk?”

“Yeah.” You toss your hair jokingly and he grins; you grin back. “What do you take me as, a human?”

He smiles, and for a moment, you can believe that nothing is wrong.

“Let’s go home, (Y/N).” He says, and you take his hand.

_I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine._

* * *

You lean your head against the wall, closing your eyes, and sigh.

Sounds. Sounds and sounds and sounds and _too many sounds-_

But what had you expected? Hadn’t you wanted to die, and if not dead, hadn’t you wanted to at the _least,_ come back? You’d come back. You’d gotten all your wishes. Hell, you’d died.

It was just that you came back again.

But it was so unfair. The Doctor, not even a hero but so close to death, but you- you, trying _so fucking hard,_ and never getting there. It was so unfair.

No- it _is_ still unfair. It still is and it will always be.

But the weirdest thing is that you simply _hadn’t noticed_ before. You never cared, and you never noticed. You were satisfied with being with him, and you didn’t know it would end like this, you didn’t know it was going to be this hard.

You should have expected, though, that after all you did, nothing was ever going to be easy for you. None of that easy adventuring vibe like he had. You were and will be unhappy.

Karma, that’s what the humans call it, right? Karma because you were a horrible Time Lord and an even worse human. Karma because even before you were a soldier, even before you met the Doctor, you were a selfish, greedy piece of _shit._

_But it doesn’t have to be this hard… this hard… this hard…_

“NO!” You hear someone shout. It shakes you away from your thoughts.

It’s the Master.

“So-” Jack’s voice, deep and humorous- “What’re we going to do with this one?”

With _that_ one? With the one that caused all this? With the one that killed half the human race and responsible for her spiraling in that _nothing_ for _thousands of years?_

You call that a fucking question?

But the voices- the voices agreeing with you aren’t the Doctor’s and neither are they anyone you know. _Kill him… execute him…_ none of it is for you.

The voice of reason, it’s always the Doctor, isn’t it? No matter how much the bad guys do wrong, no matter what happens to you, it’s always about _morally just,_ and _right,_ and nothing is _ever for you._

“No.” He says, and his voice is quiet as ever. You despise him for that. “That’s not the solution.”

_Then what is?_ You want to scream. _What is the solution?_

_Not avenging you._ His voice seems to taunt back, and her hands tighten into fists. _You don’t matter enough for that._

_You’d kill a hundred times over for Rose Tyler._

“Go on.” The Master’s voice is clear. Clear as crystal, and ringing in your mind. “Do it.”

_Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it._

You clench your jaw. The gun you’d picked up from your way in is still in your hand, cold metal against your cold hand, and your fingers are quivering. You want to shoot so, so, badly.

_Do it. Do it. Do it._

The Doctor won’t do it. You’ll have to. Creeping over to the entrance, you steady your hardened resolve before pressing your ear to the door.

“-happens to me?”

“You’re my responsibility from now on.” The Doctor. The person you’d once loved so much, you could have murdered for him if he’d just asked. “The only Time Lord left in existence. Maybe it’s time to settle down.”

Your fingers are numb around the gun. The anger, the heat you’d held in your heart, is no more, because you just can’t _think straight._

Settle down? He’d settle down?

For _him?_

The Doctor _never_ settles down. You’d tried to get him to, back when there was a Gallifrey to go to, back when there was a life, but he wouldn’t even say yes to _you._

And he’d settle down… for a murderer. For a cold-blooded genocidal maniac who’d killed hundreds, who’d led to the death of his own _fiancé._ His own _love._

_No, no, no._ Your fingers tighten around the door. _No, tell me it’s not true._

Your fingers grope for the edge.

_Tell me it’s not true. Tell me you’re lying, please- oh GOD-_

The doors slide open and you rush through, the gun whipping up from your hands.

_Please tell me you still love me._


	43. Red String

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> im back again :))

Your hands are shaking. Your mouth, filled with a million different words threatening to escape. Your eyes, prickling with tears that you haven’t let out in a hundred years.

You want to die.

The gun is sleek against your fingers but equally deadly. It is pointed, for nearly the first time in eight hundred years, at the one person you’d never thought you would, but they’re holding them anyway, and it’s aimed straight at his hearts.

“Two hearts-” You hear yourself say, but it’s like you’re underwater because something is filling your ears and you can’t hear _anything_ else around you, just you and him- “ _Two_ hearts.”

His mouth opens and closes. His face, you see, is holding pain, but you don’t let that waver your resolve, not even for a second.

“You’ve got two hearts.” You say. Your tongue is numb. “Why are you so heartless?”

There is no reply. You want to shoot so, so, badly.

_I meant this little to you. I didn’t even MATTER._

_Who’s Rose Tyler?_

“You’ve got a smart mouth, Doctor.” You say, and this time, your voice is stronger, clearer. “Try to say something against this.”

_I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine._

Behind you, Jack’s mouth is parted. Wondering whether he should stop you or leave you be. He goes for the latter.

“(Y/N)-” The Doctor says. Your name no longer sounds sweet in his mouth, like it once did: now, it just sounds like a plea. Something that came centuries too late.

“Doctor.” You incline your head. “Looking good, I see.”

His mouth opens, closes. His eyes are dark brown, like coffee grounds, and full of shattered glass. _Memories like a minefield._

“(Y/N).” He says. “(Y/N), you’re back.”

_I’m not going running into your arms. I’m not._

“No, don’t give me that crap.” You say, and although you’re smiling on the outside you’re really not. Tossing your hair back, you point the gun at him leisurely. “You think I won’t shoot? Wanna bet, huh?”

“I never thought-” He takes a step forwards. His eyes are huge. _Pleading._ “I never _dared_ to hope… (Y/N)-”

“Shut up.” You cock the gun. _Ka-chink._

_(Y/N). (Y/N). (Y/N)._

Always your name but nothing more. You’re absolutely sick of it.

The whole room is silent, at your words. Filled with tension so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. No one dares move an inch, draped over by a spell that no one can place.

“Sorry?” You tilt your head. “Cat got your tongue?”

“But-” He steps forwards, but when you give the gun another spin, steps back again. “How-”

You grin at him sweetly, looking back down at your nails. “I dunno, still working out the chinks. But this isn’t about me, sweetie; it’s about you.”

There is a silence, too long and dragging on to be on purpose. You look up. The Doctor—his mouth, for once, is closed, as though he cannot think of anything to say.

Good. He doesn’t.

“My point is.” You continue, “I had a lot of time to think, being all alone and, you know, kind of _dead,_ ” Giggling. “And I actually started thinking, right? I have a guy, and he _seems_ to love me as much as the world, but does he actually?” Your fingers are cold on the gun. You adjust your grip, shifting your hand slightly to get a better grip. “Was this man worth leaving my best friend over?”

At those words, the Doctor’s eyes snap up. Martha steps up, her mouth opening, but you shift your gun towards her and she swallows back her words.

“Although, you know, this whole gang-” Jerking your gun at the people towards the people in front of you. They lurch back as you point at each of them in turn. Jack’s eyes are wide. “It’s been a long time since we’ve met in one place, and it’s just come to me: you know why all of us met? It’s because of the Doctor.”

Doctor. Doctor. Doctor.

The Doctor saves the patient, but he can also kill them. It depends how good the Doctor is. One wrong move can shove them into a coma, push them into the pit of death, kill them dead. One wrong move means so much if you are a Doctor.

It’s like walking on eggshells, and finally, something has cracked under your foot.

“All of you love the Doctor so much, because he’s such an admirable person. Whisks you away on a giant box, doesn’t he? Smiles and beckons at you, and off you go like a dog.” You laugh. It’s not even funny. Why are you laughing? “A dog. Panting, panting, and when he grabs you and snaps your neck, you’re still smiling at him. That’s you to him, you know. Just dogs.” These aren’t your emotions. This is just a fact, sung on your lips in a little sing-song voice, stated matter-of-factly in a pleasant, casual grin. Just facts, and it doesn’t affect you at all. The gun suddenly feels so light in your hand. “In fact, there’s really no point aiming this gun at you anymore.”

Your fingers drop the gun. There is no worse place to smile, but you smile anyway, because that is what he had told you from the start.

_Smile. It’ll make you feel better._

“He’ll take the bullet for anyone else in this room.”

_In Japan, there is a tale. A tale that soulmates are connected through a red string, tied around their pinky, connecting the two lovers together and bringing them towards each other in every situation._

“For you, too.” The Doctor says. His victory, of course, must not feel like a victory anymore, and although you _are_ sorry for that, you still smile and imagine that you are still alone, in that deep, dark, _nothing._ “I would take one for you. You only.”

_There are rare people who are pulled towards their soulmates stronger than others. The string tightens and loosens at all the right moments, coincidences upon coincidences piled up so that it will draw them closer and closer._

The air is thick. You are the only one still smiling.

_But sometimes, fate does not go as commanded. Sometimes, they were simply not meant to be. The red string grows thinner and thinner, wearing away at the friction._

“Stop bullshitting.”

The Master is silent, for the first time, and he looks at you. The one you feel the most sorry about.

_I love you,_ you mouth. _I'm sorry._

His eyes, betrayed.

The gun drops to the floor, and the vortex manipulator around your wrist whirs.

_And the red string will snap._


	44. Different (Simply, misunderstood)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what do you think will happen next? where do you think she'll go?  
> oOoOoOOoh im so excited xD

The two of you hadn’t always been like this. Of course not. Back when you were on Gallifrey, there was so much for the two of you. The evil man, barely over two hundred, and the girl, curious—too curious for her own good—and so interested.

It had been like a movie cliché, actually.

Everyone warned you against the Doctor, at first. Back in Gallifrey. His reputation was something of a playboy, a wild card: the authorities didn’t seem to like him much because he was unpredictable. The only reason he was employed at all seemed to be because he had—quote unquote—such “fine ideas”. That was it, from high up. Your father was one of the higher officials, and he’d heard rumors of _the Doctor_ costing the government so much money because of some things or another.

There were worse rumors than that, too. He wasn’t just a wild card, they said, he was a psycho. Loved by so many people, he was popular and well known, but that was because he knew how to play his cards right. _He’s nothing but trouble,_ they said. _He’s nothing but trouble, but we can’t get enough of him._

That wasn’t the end of it. He wasn’t just a bad _person,_ they said: oh, no, he was worse. Be his friend, but never be his woman. He was dirty, a rascal, womanizing and good for nothing. He was clean in the front but dirty in the back, both loved and admired but hated by the selective few. He slept around but never settled down.

How evil does a person have to be to have so many people fear him like that? You were, in the most part, nothing like him, and absolutely interested.

You hadn’t known him yet, of course. You were in the same department, but all you knew was that changing face, and that had been it.

And then you met him, for real. Not just him as a rumor, but him in real life, with his charming grin that swept you away like a storm and his racy air, the one that made you run away to Earth and fill your head with crazy ideas.

You’d thought, _for a womanizer and a psycho, he’s pretty neat._

And he was.

He was right there. In your lab, with your hair a mess and your face bare and a pair of ugly glasses propped up onto your forehead: a lab coat over your worst clothes and your fingers stained with radioactive material. He stood in the corner, dressed in a suit, checking the time. His hair was tousled perfectly and his mouth a mischievous smile. His eyes filled with the same madness yours was.

“I heard someone’s been looking for me.” He’d said. “Hope, is it?”

You’d stood there, utterly forgetting about the toxic stuff all over your hand.

“The Master told me.” He’d continued, utterly nonchalant, running his fingers through too-perfect hair. “Your friend. An ongoing romantic curiosity, he called it.”

Then he’d tripped over a stool, and you’d fallen right for him.

Both of you were so immature, but the two of you completed each other, and there was that. You found out that the rumors weren’t true at all, no; when asked why he let them be, your lover—his arms around your waist, his lips pressing against bruises left by his own fingers just a night ago—murmured, “You can’t stop people from thinking what they want to.”

He was beautiful. Oh, _god,_ he was beautiful. Not just how he looked, the look that changed every hundred years with those deep eyes and mischievous sparkle whenever he laughed, but the way he _talked,_ his ideologies and those mad thoughts and ideas all over the place. It was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

You’d fallen in love with him twice: with his body, and with his mind.

You knew why other people thought he was such a bad person. It was because of his ideas, the ones that made you fall in love with him. The crazy ideas were just _new,_ that was it: you saw him as another one of your kind. Someone with too many ideas but too little time. Half human in his own wit, in the way how they could mold history and think of such things.

You love—you’d _loved_ him.

Until now, there had never been a single thought as to whether he loved you or not. That much was obvious: _yes._

It was the war that had changed both of you. If the two of you hadn’t fought, if the two of you hadn’t been the only survivors on the wreckage of a burning planet… it would have changed.

It was the war, and without it, everything would have been different.

_Would it?_

* * *

After the two of you had found each other, it had been something of a miracle. The two of you couldn’t believe the sights in front of you.

In the console, on the doorstep, against the railings: the scent of both of you are everywhere. He pushes you against the door and kisses you deeply. He pins you on the railing and lets his fingers run over you, every curve, every dip, every caress of your body. His fingers are tight on your arm, like he never wants to lose you again, and his fingers curl in your hair, every move desperate and seeming to make up for several hundred years of distance.

You love him. You love him. You love him.

A soliloquy of confessions, everywhere. All over the TARDIS. You’d run off with it, together, and now this is your home, where every twist and turn teases you and every wheeze of the TARDIS bounces your heart like it’s on a trampoline. You love this place.

By Rassilion, you love _him._

But it is gone now, and you are now simply _alone_. Being without him has truly fucked you up, and you hate it, but there is no other way.

All you have are the new clothes over your body and the things inside your pocket, but nothing more. You stand on the doorstep of the TARDIS, your fingers hesitant around the key the Doctor had given you so long ago. You don't want to let go.

Where do you go? When everything you valued is lost, where do you go?

Your tears threaten to fall, but it never does.

_Smile. It’ll make you feel better._

_Goodbye, Doctor,_ you think, and smile.

It makes you feel better.


	45. The End

Dear Readers,

Hey guys! This is the author here.

This is it: the end. The end of this story.

I just wanted to say thank you guys for all the support you've given me so far.

I admit, when I first began this story with bad wifi, a lent computer, and not to best wit for saving chapters, I didn't exactly expect it to be worthy of this much attention. Author here is not the most experienced fanfiction writer, nor the oldest Whovian.

But when I uploaded this, so many people gave me support. I loved the long comments you guys wrote about all your favourite scenes/moments, and every kudos you guys left were the best things I could ask for. Every time I got an Archive notification in my mailbox, I just loved it so much, and I owe all of that to you guys: the readers.

Whom, strangely, seem to think I am in my twenties. I'm probably younger than most of yall.

But anyways. The main character, (Y/N), was my vent for everything I've been through these past few months, and she is also astoundingly everything I could never be. I cried with this story, laughed with this story, and you can probably tell that whenever there was a sad scene, I wasn't exactly in the happiest of moods. This was a world where I could control everything and know the outcomes, and I loved this place for that: my safe space.

Not only that, but it was the same with the Doctor, too. I uploaded the first chapter whilst first inspired by a little spark of an idea: what if the Doctor's family was alive and out there somewhere? There was nothing more than that: but this developed into so much more.

I loved writing every plot twist and every surprising outcome, every twist of the story. I also loved how you guys stuck with me even after all those irregular updates (whoops) and everything else.

So what is the outcome of this? I just wanted to say to all of you:

Thank you so much!

I'll see you guys in the future, sometime. Until then, adios.

**-shawtymiamor**

P.S. I hope people aren't mad I made this into an angst ending, I am that kind of woman *flips hair aggressively*


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